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K. LAMITTS 

TEXAS TALES 


By JOHN S. BONNER 

ft 

{Alias K. Lamity.) 


in 



LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two Copies Keceivcu 

JAN 3 1905 

I CopyrijiJii tiiuy 

‘ 3, /9oj/ 

CUSS 4 XXc. Noi 

/OO 7 6-^ 

COPY B. 

< -■ II 




Copyright 1904 

BY 

JOHN STURGIS BONNER 


While franKly admitting the honor to be a doubtful one, 
I respectfully dedicate this little volume to 
my true and time-tested friend, 

HON. W. B. WORTHAM. 

If the result equals my intentions, it will mal^e 
him famous if not immortal. 


1 




PREFACE. 


I desire to state in the beginning of this preface that 
I have no earthly excuse to offer an outraged public 
for the publication of this book. It was malicious, pre- 
meditated, and prompted by a fiendish delight in wit- 
nessing human suffering. 

Whether you like it or not, does not interest me in 
the least. That’s your business, not mine. All I want 
you to do is to buy it. 

The price is 50 cents — just about five times as much 
as the book is worth — ^but, after reading it, if you de- 
cide you do not want the volume, mail it back to me, 
postpaid, and I will keep the half dollar and try to sell 
the book to some one else. This may not look like busi- 
ness for you, but it is for me, and is the best I can 
offer. 

Serenely yours, 

John S. Bonner. 




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WHITE THROATS AND BLACK FINGERS.^ 


A friend recently remarked to me : ^^Bonner, Idl tell 
you wherein lies the success of the Harpoon’. Nine- 
tenths of your readers take it because you always seem 
to be running over with hilarity and good-natured 
fun.’^ I really don’t know whether or not the gentle- 
man guessed correctly, but if he did, I hereby warn the 
Harpoon readers (on the front page) that there will 
be precious little hilarity or fun in this particular is- 
sue. I don’t feel that way. 

The clock is just now striking the hour of midnight. 
The night is cool and pleasant, and as I look out of 
the open window. Nature seems to say: ^Tsn’t this a 
pleasant world in which to live ? And have I not done 
well for the sons and daughters of men? Say your 
prayers, go to sleep and rest in peace.” 

But I can not go to sleep. I’ve tried to do so for 
three hours, but my efforts were in vain. A dreadful 
sense of impending peril seems to be hanging over me. 
Every time I close my eyes, and attempt to go to sleep, 
I see great red splotches of blood floating before me — 
I see white throats clutched by murderous black An- 
gers — and in fancy can hear the cries of helpless 
women and children begging for their honor and lives. 
A Nero could not sleep under such conditions, nor will 
I attempt to do so. 


* Written May, 1904. 


8 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


In more than one issue of the Harpoon I have called 
attention to the increase of crime among the negroes. 
Day after day comes the report of outrages by black 
beasts upon white women. Even the tiny little chil- 
dren do not escape the lust of these inhuman wretches. 
Erom North and South comes the same tale of rapine 
and murder, until honest, law-abiding men lose their 
heads and are transformed into avenging, merciless 
mobs. 

Texas has suffered horribly along this line. It is 
needless to enumerate the startling number of out- 
rages that have been perpetrated by these two-legged 
devils upon the white women and children in this great 
State. People have waited and prayed, and hoped it 
would cease, hut it still goes on. In numerous in- 
stances the 'fiends have been burned at the stake and 
tortur-ed almost beyond comprehension, in the hopes 
that the example might terrify others into obedience to 
the laws. Others have been legally tried and executed 
upon the gallows. 

So far as I have been able to see, these examples have 
absolutely no effect upon the class of negroes who com- 
mit these outrages, and victim after victim is added 
to the bloody list. 

Only a few days ago, the citizens of Austin and 
Travis county were startled by the awful news that 
another white woman had been assaulted and then 
murdered by a negro. The news swept over this and 
adjoining counties like fire through the grass of a dry 
prairie. The people were up and in arms, and from 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


9 


city^ town, and farm house, came forth men and boys, 
armed to the teeth, and bent on capturing and punish- 
ing the black devil. 

Following the first announcement, came the horrify- 
ing particulars, coupled with the name and identity 
of the miserable hell-hound who had committed the 
deed. Miss Lulu Sandberg, a lovely, and highly re- 
spected young girl, still under the age of 20 years, had 
been assaulted and foully murdered by Henry Williams, 
alias Henry Simmons, a big, brawny, monkey-faced 
negro, well known to hundreds of Travis county people. 
The body, still warm, was found where the victim had 
been dragged into the bushes from a buggy. A strong 
cord had been wrapped tightly around her neck, and, to 
make assurance a certainty, her fair white throat had 
been almost severed from her shoulders with a knife 
or razor. It was an awful sight — and when I recall the 
circumstances, can you wonder that sleep is banished 
from my eyes ? 

Next came the tireless search. The infuriated hun- 
ters made it so hot in the country, the villain escaped 
into the city of Austin, only to fall into the watchful 
clutches of police officers Johnnie Bracken and 0. P. 
Gibson, who brought him to terms by a playful appli- 
catipn of a six-shooter across his wolly head. He is 
now in the custody of the sheriff, backed up by the 
militia, and he will never be permitted to leave their 
hands until his worthless carcass is turned over to the 
undertakers. That his miserable neck will be broken 
is an assured fact, but incidentally, I want to ask how 
this will benefit that poor outraged and murdered girl. 


10 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


and what effect his execution will have upon the hun- 
dreds of equally worthless and vicious negroes in Texas, 
who inwardly S3rnipathize with Henry Williams, and 
who only lack a tempting opportunity to commit iden- 
tically the same offense ? 

Experience has taught me that such examples have 
absolutely no effect upon the natural rape fiend, except 
possibly to make them a trifie more cautious in laying 
their plans for accomplishing their hellish designs. 
That such deeds have got to stop, goes without saying, 
yet the manner of securing safety to our wives and 
daughters is the subject under discussion. 

There are only two ways of accomplishing the de- 
sired end. The first is the voluntary cessation of the 
assaults by negroes upon white women. The second 
is by compulsion. I donT believe the first possible. 
Experience proves that fact fully. Matters are grow- 
ing worse every year, hence some plan must be adopted 
to compel these damnable hell-cats to keep their black 
fingers from white throats. 

How, what are we going to do about it? Is it not 
the most absolute folly to permit things to simply rack 
along, while year after year our wives and, daughters 
are added to the long list of victims ? I have heard it 
said, ^"Oh, be patient, be law-abiding, and educate the 
negroes, and the race will cease committing such brutal 
acts.” The hell they will ! 

But when are they going to stop ? While we are try- 
ing to civilize and educate a gang of damned conceited 
coons to be decent, whose wives or daughters must be 
put up as victims until that time? You know abso- 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


11 


lutely, that Henry Williams will not be the last negro 
to outrage and murder a white woman in Texas; then 
where is the father, husband, or brother, who will fur- 
nish the daughter, wife or sister, for the sacrifice? 

Isn’t it in order for some of these people who preach 
^^patience and forbearance,” to furnish the victims? 
How do you know hut what it will be your own wife or 
daughter who is to next feel the grip of black fingers 
on her throat ? 

As a rule, negroes sympathize with these desperate, 
villainous rape fiends. Henry Williams came right 
into the city of Austin, when 1000 ^men were hot on his 
trail, and met numerous negroes who knew him well. 
Did they try to arrest him or inform the whites of his 
presence? Hot on your life! They warned him of his 
danger, and aided him to evade the officers. Great 
God ! what can you expect from such alleged specimens 
of American citizens? Absolutely nothing except be- 
trayal at the first favorable opportunity. 

When the negroes were slaves, you never heard of 
such outrages, although they lived right among the 
whites. It has required years of patient toil and lots 
of worry to enable the white nigger-lovers to bring out 
the dominant traits of barbarism inherent in a full- 
blooded negro. I lay the hlame on white politicians, 
and if I can not prove it, I will never lay claim to 
being a white man again, but acknowledge that I am 
a full-blooded Digger Indian. 

After the negroes were free, a howl went up from 
the North to educate them, and place them on the same 
footing as a Southern gentleman. As most of the ne- 


12 


K. Lamity's Texas Tales. 


groes lived in the South, these white Northern politi- 
cians decided that if anyone suffered, it must neces- 
sarily be the Southern people. Later on even a lot of 
Southern politicians^ who cared more for office than 
for anything else on earthy exerted themselves to ^^stand 
in” with the negroes in order to secure their vote. 
Large sums of money have been blown in by the white 
people of the South in trying to educate the coons to a 
level of respectability, and I’ll swear that ninety-five 
per cent of the money had just as well have been 
dumped into the sea. This is strong language, but I 
wish I knew how to make it stronger. 

What is the result ? The negroes have left the farms 
and jammed themselves into the towns and cities. 
Every decent man knows (and will say so if he cares to 
admit the truth) that the average young negro buck, 
who has been raised up in a town or city since the 
emancipation, it not worth hell’s-room in a powder 
house. There are a few exceptions, but devilish few. 
They keep the police and other petty courts grinding 
from year in to year out. They are fined for all sorts 
of petty offenses, lay it out in jail at the expense of 
decent, hard-working, honest white tax payers, or serve 
terms, doing worthless forced work on county roads and 
county poor farms. Henry Williams, the wretched 
black murderer of pretty Lulu Sandberg, has served 
time on the Travis county roads. What a pity someone 
did not kill the devilish scoundrel before he lived to 
cast such a gloom over a decent people. 

As a result of the attempt to educate the negro, what 
has been gained? They all long for social equality. 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


13 


Most of them are too smart to say so openly, but they 
nearly all wish, and finally expect, to reach that point. 
They want to send their children to school with the 
whites. They kick hecanse we have a separate coach 
law, and in several cities in Texas, have boycotted street 
car companies because the city councils compel said 
companies to separate the whites and blacks who travel 
on their cars. Any man with as much sense as a potato 
bug can see the drift of the African's ambition. I hon- 
estly believe that most of the outrages that are com- 
mitted by negroes are not so much prompted by uncon- 
trolled lust, as by a desire to secure revenge upon the 
white race. 

Every time a white man permits himself to associate 
as an equal with a negro^ he is simply encouraging a 
continuance of rape and murder. You may not agree 
with me, but I am absolutely positive of that proposi- 
tion. Matters are a trifle better under recent legisla- 
tion, but you will find that the greatest trouble arises 
along about election times, when (I say it with shame 
for my race) you always find some office-seeking whites 
who will fold the odoriferous coons to their manly 
bosoms, pat them on the back, and make the ignorant 
African believe himself the equal of any white man. 
So far as that particular party is concerned, I frankly 
acknowledge the superiority of the coon. If I had my 
way, I would neck them together, and never permit 
them to separate, although candor compels me to admit 
that it would be an indignity heaped upon the negro. 

It is not the question of catching and punishing these 
two-legged coyotes that interests me, but how to pre- 


14 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


vent a repetition of snch horrible outrages. There is 
not a bit of danger about them not being caught and 
killed, but after that is done, we know, by sad exper- 
ience, that their fate does not deter a certain large class 
of conceited and bigoted negroes from, trying the same 
game. 

I am in receipt of a letter from one of the most in- 
telligent and representative farmers in Travis county, 
who in part says : 

^‘^My Dear Bonner:^ Your righteous soul must have 
been sadly distressed by the outrage which has, in the 
past few days, brought the ^nigger problem^ right to 
your own door. We have sympathized with sufferers at 
a distance, and almost persuaded ourselves that we 
were beyond the outrage limit, as our niggers were of 
a superior grade. That delusion has been rudely dis- 
pelled, and we are compelled to face the fact that a 
nigger is a nigger, wherever he may chance to be. ‘The 
leopard can not change its spots, nor the Ethiopian his 
skin’ — or nature. 

“The beast now in jail awaiting ‘due process of law’ 
and ‘legal execution’ is commonly called a man; but, 
if such a burlesque on Almighty God, who, it is al- 
leged, created man in his own image, is a man, then 
call me a monkey. 

“Pity it is that the good men who chased him unsuc- 
cessfully did not catch him in the mesquite and fill his 
foul carcass with lead, instead of degrading honest 
hemp with him. Hanging is too honorable and easy a 
death for such a beast. Such an ending will make him 
an envied hero; and, instead of acting as a determent. 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


15 


will probably stimulate others of his race to share in 
the glory. 

^^He will, as usual^ confess his sins, express regret for 
his misdeeds, ^get religion,’ and go straight to the arms 
of Jesus. 

^Tt is now in order for the dear ladies to cook him 
delicate dishes, and take them to him, along with 
beautiful flowers and sweet smiles, so as to comfort him 
in his time of trouble. At least, this was what hap- 
pened the last time a nigger was hanged here for out- 
raging a white child. 

“Eussia professes to be alarmed about what is called 
a yellow peril ; but that is like the Taseless fabric of a 
dream’ compared to the Black peril we have with us all 
the time. The one is a creature of the imagination; 
the other a stern reality. 

^^But the question is : What can be done to abate it ? 
The remedy is simple and effective, though somewhat 
drastic ; but severe diseases often demand desperate 
treatment. 

am not one of those extremists who would kill 
them all, because they are niggers; but, as they are cer- 
tainly not nearer humans that the 'connecting link,’ I 
would control their numbers, till they supplied proof 
of their human instincts. 

"This will shock Teddy, and those who, like him, 
deprecate 'race suicide.’ But they don’t know the case 
as we do. Such philosophers act and argue on the as- 
sumption that the nigger is a fully developed human. 
We know differently. He bears some of the outward 


16 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


forms of the human family; but so does the ourang- 
outang and chimpanzee. 

^‘^The brute and human family are alike in many 
charactertistics ; and all healthy and properly consti- 
tuted males in both^ have strong sexual instincts. It 
is in the power to control these instincts that we find 
the dividing line between the human and the brute ani- 
mal. There are some white brutes, but they do not 
make themselves offensively and dangerously promi- 
nent.” 

My friend then proceeds to announce his plans, which 
is to limit the increase in negro population by meas- 
ures that would certainly be effective, the only trouble 
being that the remedy would have to be equally and as 
vigorously applied to a certain class of low whites as 
to the blacks, unless you wanted an overfiow of Colo- 
rado Claro bipeds that would be as had or worse than 
the full-blooded African. 

I have made the assertion, and I now repeat it, that 
unless a speedy cessation of such outrages is effected, 
there will be all sorts of trouble in the South. The 
average negro does not realize the imminent danger 
that threatens himself and his race. His infernal self- 
conceit added to a skull as thick as shell-proof armor- 
plate, precludes the idea ever entering his head that 
white people will not submit much longer to such out- 
rages. I would not want to see the trouble postponed 
if it were not for a few negroes residing in every white 
community, who are as good citizens as anyone may 
desire. They are in a hopeless minority as compared 


/ 


K. L amity’s Texas Tales. 17 

with the vicious element, but might possibly suffer 
equally in case of race trouble. 

The average negro, however, does not seem to realize 
the danger. He simply loafs around town, seldom 
works, gambles a little, drinks all the booze he can get, 
lives on the labor (or vice) of some negro woman, and 
really believes he is a human being. As a matter of 
fact, he is as worthless as a canceled postage stamp, 
and ought to be pushed clear off the earth. 

In the country you find some very worthy negroes, 
who live in peace with their white neighbors, but as I 
before stated, it’s a powerful good coon who will not 
feed and protect a negro criminal, and these good ones 
are as scarce as ice water in purgatory. 

Eeferring again to that class of whites who, by un- 
necessary familiarity, encourage aspirations in the ne- 
groes’ mind that can never be realized, I want to add 
that such acts as have been done by the present Presi- 
dent of the United States, in placing himself on terms 
of social equality with negroes, has done more harm 
than can be undone in many years to come. Such in- 
fernal, damnable political stunts make a decent white 
man sick at the stomach, especially when all sensible 
people realize that it was done in order to curry favor 
with negro voters. I guarantee that there is not a de- 
cent man in the United States who would do as Mr. 
Eoosevelt has done. Decent white people have more 
respect for their wives and daughters' 

Now, in want of some better method, I offer a solu- 
tion for the betterment of the moral character of the 


18 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


negro race. Education, such as is given the whites, is 
infernal nonsense. Many negroes wonT go to school, 
and compulsory education would do no good. You can 
not teach a razor-back shoat to sing, no matter how 
long you keep it in school. A moderate amount of in- 
dustrial education might do some good, but the average 
negro hates industry. 

Just as soon as you teach one of these monkey-faced 
chimpanzees to read and write, he at once assumes the 
idea that he is too smart to work. Any white man who 
knows anything about negroes will admit this state- 
ment, unless he is a natural-born liar. 

These partially educated smart coons crowd into 
towns and cities. They wear better clothes than the 
average honest white laborer, haunt the low liquor dives 
and gambling hells, strut up and down the street ogling 
white women and white school girls, and if the thoughts 
passing through their woolly heads were expressed in 
words, the last one of them would be in hell in half an 
hour. 

Such a thing as virtue or honesty is unknown to 
them. These damnable worthless monkeys would out- 
rage any white women they met if they believed they 
would not be detected, and what they wouldn’t steal, a 
hungry hound pup would not drag out of a tanyard. 
These pictures are not overdrawn. The Southern peo- 
ple realize that they are true. This class of negroes 
have no more respect for negro women than a coyote 
wolf has for a cotton-tail rabbit. (To be honest, how- 
ever, I must admit that the conduct of a large per cent 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


19 


of negro women is not calculated to entitle them to any 
great amount of respect from anyone.) 

My plan for dealing with this class of negro men is 
to force them to leave the towns and cities or go to 
some honest work. It can be done. Legally, if possi- 
ble, but do it anyhow. The rapists and murderers are 
supplied from the ranks of worthless crap-shooting, 
booze-drinking, black hellians that loaf and pike around 
the towns and cities. They deserve ho mercy or consid- 
eration at the hands of honest men, black or white. If 
decent means can not clean out the gangs, horsewhips 
and shotguns might be substituted. The latter, espe- 
cially, is a specific. After they reach the country, they 
will go to work, or be kept on the everlasting move. 

There is no use to postpone matters. Delay only en- 
courages other infernal wretches like Henry Williams 
to try their luck in the same manner. All they want is 
a lonely road, ^ defenseless white woman, and the deed 
is done. I am a law-abiding citizen, and would not in- 
tentionally do a decent man a wrong. I have no pa- 
tience on earth, however, with rapists and murderers. 
They deserve no mercy. 

Let us protect our wives and daughters from such 
brutes, or pull off our pantaloons, put on sunbonnets, 
and scream and climb on top a chair every time we see 
a mouse. I do not want to see an innocent negro suf- 
fer, but so help me God, I would not give the honor 
and safety of one pure, honest American girl for every 
damned negro that lives in the United States. 

That’s the way I feel about the matter. How do you 
stand on the proposition? Is it the honor and safety 


20 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


of your wife^ and your daughter, or is it a maudlin 
sentiment to try and elevate a race of monkeys to an 
equality with the Anglo-Saxon? We have placed them 
on a political footing with ourselves, spent millions of 
dollars trying to educate them, and they repay the 
Southern people by raping and murdering their women. 
Like a mule, they donT appreciate kind treatment. As 
soon as bne of their race commits a devilish crime and 
flees for his life, the whole ^‘^kit and bilin^ do their 
best to screen him. After he is caught, then they strut 
around like black turkey gobblers, speak of the ^^ma- 
jesty of the law,^^ give the condemned man the devil in 
public, and bemoan his capture in secret. I^m squeal- 
ing the Lord^s truth now, and you know it. 

What are you going to do about it ? 

It wonT be long until the recent horror will be re- 
peated in Texas. The culprit will be one of these in- 
fernal, conceited, semi-educated town coons, who are 
seen every day on our streets by the dozen. 

DonT take any chances. Protect your families, and 
do it now. DonT wait until your daughter is assaulted 
by some villainous coon, but make things so infernally 
hot for this well known class of idle vagabonds that 
they will not have time to get their damnable black An- 
gers on white women^s throats. If there is anything I 
have left out, I am sorry for it. 

It is nearly daylight now, and I am still wide awake. 
An honest, decent man is almost afraid to close his 
eyes when his wife and daughters are asleep, even in an 
adjoining room. He even dreads daylight, when, in 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


21 


order to earn an honest living, he must leave them at 
home at the mercy of some black imp of hell, v^ho may 
be watching his departure. A poor man can not sit on 
his front gallery all day with a shotgun on his lap and 
earn bread for wife and babies. The very thought keeps 
me as wide awake as an owl. 

But down in an humble home near the beautiful lit- 
tle town of Manor, I am sure there is another watcher. 
It is a forlorn and heart-broken widow, whose very soul 
is crushed over the death of her household idol — the 
beautiful, the lovable, unfortunate Lulu Sandberg. 
How my very soul goes out in sympathy for the mother, 
who will never on earth again see her precious girl ! 
God bless her, and bless the murdered child, and may 
His eternal curse rest forever upon the black assassin 
who committed the deed, as well as upon every other 
infernal hell-hound who sympathizes with him. 

The clock has just struck six. Good morning! 

^ ^ S 

THE BURIAL AND RESURRECTION OF BILL 
SPENCER. 


Bill Spencer was the best hand on the IXL ranch. 
He was a dead shot with either lasso or six-shooter and 
no man understood better the handling of a large herd 
of unruly cattle. He was a giant in stature, and pos- 
sessed more endurance and good nature than any man 
I ever knew. 

Ho one ever heard him complain of being tired. In 


22 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


the ‘‘branding pen^^ on a hot day he would work from 
morning till night in the dust, which, being trampled 
by the hundreds of hoofs, rose in suffocating clouds, and 
then at night stand double watch over the restless cattle 
in order to relieve some fagged out and less robust com- 
rade. If the matter was mentioned, he would smile and 
say, “Oh, I jest got to thinkin^ and forgot to wake him 
up.^^ 

When Bill Spencer would lie down to rest, it took 
just five minutes on an average to put him to sleep, a 
fact always denoted by the blasts of an excruciating 
nasal solo that would almost arouse the dead. As a 
single-handed snorer Bill was an incandescent success. 
The boys at the ranch declared that he could snore in 
seventeen different keys, and run the nasal chromatic 
scale, including all the variations, with both eyes shut. 

When once asleep it took a noise very little inferior 
to the explosion of a dynamite bomb to disturb him in 
the least. Such old schemes as seizing a saddle or set 
of harness, chasing over him with stirrups flapping and 
chains clattering, while half a dozen big, lusty cowboys 
stood near by yelling “Look out — look out — whoa-o-o 
whoa-o-o’^ had no more effect on Bill than bombarding 
the Eocky Mountains with hot tamales. I have seen a 
cowboy stand within five feet of Bilks head and fire off 
every load from a big 45-calibre six-shooter as rapidly 
as the weapon could revolve. The only effect produced 
upon the sleeper would be to cause him to change his 
snore from B fiat to A sharp, dash off a little fortissimo 
trill as high as a caffs back, then drop gracefully into 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


23 


his old foghorn favorite and continue the nocturnal con- 
cert. 

Theodore Van Ness, the owner of the ranch, told a very 
thrilling story about how Bill once went to sleep while 
guarding a herd of unruly cattle, and at the first blast 
of that wonderful snore every beef sprang to his feet, 
gave a snort of terror, elevated his tail into the adjacent 
atmosphere and fied frantically away in the grandest 
stampede ever known among the stockmen of Bell 
county, Texas. He stated that when the cattle first 
broke the corral. Bill was lying on the ground near a 
small fire. The huge mass of terror stricken animals 
divided on this fire, one half going on one side and half 
on the other, and fiew furiously across the prairie, while 
the bellowing of the bulls, the popping and snapping of 
broken horns and the thunder of two thousand fiying 
hoofs was terrific. The cowboys were hastily mounted 
and galloping after the frightened animals, endeavored 
to ^^round them up^^ and get them under control. 

Theodore stated, that during all this clatter and noise 
(and always proposed to swear to it, if necessary) Bill 
was sleeping as sweetly as a babe upon its mother^s 
bosom, pouring forth his bassoon snore that could easily 
be heard above the crash of the departing herd and 
adding terror to their flight. 

In justice to all parties I will state that when Theo- 
dore related the story, which he did at every convenient 
opportunity. Bill usually sat quiet until that portion 
was reached where it is stated that the cattle rushed by 
the fire, and then he would rise slowly to his feet, lazily 
take a hitch on his ducking overalls and shuffle off, 


21 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


remarking in a very distinct tone that it was “a blank 
lie.” Theodore always wound up the story by stating 
that next morning Bill awoke, got up, rubbed his eyes, 
gazed at the demolished corral and asked, ^^Who in 
thunder tore down that fence and driv off them cattle ?” 

Although the boys delighted to tease Bill, he was the 
favorite at the ranch and there was not one man among 
that gang of big, lusty fellows who would not have been 
willing to risk his own life to protect him. I donT 
believe a selfish or mean thought ever entered that hon- 
est weather-stained bosom, and the sight of pain or mis- 
ery in man or beast always found a ready S3rinpathizer 
in Bill Spencer. Had he been perishing with thirst, he 
would have divided his last drop of water with a famish- 
ing dog, or have given it all to a comrade in like dis- 
tress. 

He was always the champion of the unfortunate, 
whether it was man or beast, and once I saw him rush 
up to a Mexican herder who was unmercifully beating 
a young horse, seize the astonished Greaser by the collar 
and make him dance the Spanish fandango with a cow- 
boy^s quirt. Every old cow pony on the ranch knew 
Bill, and he could walk out and catch them on the 
prairie when any other man on the ranch would have 
had to use a lasso. 

There was always a big gang of worthless dogs lying 
around the ranch and Bill laid claim to the entire lay- 
out. They were of all breeds, sizes and colors and no 
one ever desired to divide ownership, for they were as 
worthless a covey of nondescript mongrels as were ever 
gathered together. Every time Bill went to Belton, a 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


25 


town about fifteen miles distant, he never failed to bring 
back, not only a very expensive and exhilarating jag, but 
also a considerable and well selected addition to his 
stock of dogs. Any dog on earth would leave his master 
and follow Bill, and when he squatted down by the fire 
to eat his meals, this array of canine talent could 
always be seen lined up just behind him, anxiously 
awaiting the bits of food they knew would be tossed 
them by their kind hearted master. 

I have said that Bill sometimes indulged in stimulat- 
ing drinks. This was not very often and he could not 
be classed as a drunkard according to the cowboy^s 
standard, for he only got on an occasional spree. These 
periods of alcoholic felicity occurred only when Bill 
went to town, which was every two or three months. 
You might bring a barrel of whisky to the ranch and he 
would never take a drink. He would even lecture and 
warn the other boys when they dared to indulge in such 
unholy practices as whisky drinking, always excusing 
himself with the statement that he had found the evil 
of drinking ^^and never intended to tetch another drop 
as long as his name was Bill Spencer.^^ 

I am sure that Bilks intentions were all good, and as 
long as he stayed on the ranch and was at work he could 
resist the tempter, but when he went to town the 
atmosphere and sights were too much for him, and 
before he knew it he was loaded to the guards and kept 
taking on more freight regardless of the danger of sink- 
ing. He generally put in a couple of days, never stop- 
ping, never sleeping, but eating voraciously every two 
or three hours, and after satisfying himself that he had 


^6 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


done his duty in the matter and the job was complete, 
he would crawl on ^^Silver Heels, his favorite pony, 
and gallop the fifteen miles to the ranch without draw- 
ing rein. While he was in town his horse was always 
in the livery stable, and Bill would make regular trips 
between drinks to see if the animal was all right, and 
woe unto the stable boy if the horse showed any signs 
of neglect. 

During his wanderings over town Bill would uncon- 
sciously gather up every worthless cur he came across, 
and usually on the second day of his visit he could be 
seen galloping across the prairie en route for the ranch, 
closely followed by his canine recruits and singing in a 
voice more remarkable for strength than sweetness : 

^^My name it is Joe Bowers, 

I have a brother Ike, 

I’m jest from old Missoury, 

And all the way from Pike.” 

And when he turned the little hill which brought 
him in. sight of the ranch, he always left off singing and 
gave a war whoop to announce his arrival. Then the 
boys would rise up,, grin, and some one would remark, 
^^Here comes Bill with more dogs.” 

On reaching the camp he would first turn loose his 
horse to graze, and then all the boys would be called up 
to listen to a strong lecture on the evils of drinking, and 
to receive the presents he never failed to bring back with 
him. It was a sight to see these big fellows in leather 
leggins crowding around Bill, like small boys around 
a Christmas tree, and each one taking the most intense 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


27 


delight in tl\e distribution. Such a conglomeration, 
such a mixture, such a heterogeneous collection of 
worthless presents could never be made except by just 
such a character as Bill Spencer. Bed bandanna hand- 
kerchiefs, pocket knives that wouldn’t cut butter, socks 
(mismatched in sizes and colors), Jews harps, French 
harps, love-letter writers, prize boxes, candy (always 
very brilliant in color), picture cards, slate pencils, toy 
whistles, cigars of all grades, very much mashed and 
otherwise disfigured, chewing gum, small bottles of 
cheap cologne, hair oil, pocket mirrors, remnants of rib- 
bon, strings, tobacco of doubtful quality, slabs of very 
black ginger cake, and dozens of other equally useless 
and worthless articles, but always in the greatest abund- 
ance. He never failed to have in the loyout two or three 
small testaments, which he distributed with the greatest 
solemnity, accompanied with some sage advice to the 
recipient of the gift. To watch him empty out his sad- 
dle pockets was a sight to behold, and after the distribu- 
tion was over and every boy had received his present. 
Bill would eat a supper sufficient for three men, roll up 
in a blanket and ^^goodbye for twenty-four hours.” 

The most remarkable thing about Bill Spencer’s 
sprees was the fact that he could never remember, on 
getting sober, what had passed while he was drunk. He 
would sometimes have a dim, hazy recollection of leav- 
ing town, but that was as far as he ever got. I am 
sure he often thought the boys were guying him when 
they exhibited some ridiculous trinket he had given 
them on his return from the village. This peculiarity 
of his was the foundation for the playing of a practical 


28 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


joke on Bill, which, though very severe, forever broke 
him of the liquor habit. 

Theodore Van Ness originated the scheme. First post- 
ing every man on the ranch to back up all his state- 
ments, on the morning following one of Bilks sprees, 
he called that worthy aside and in a voice full of emo- 
tion and face as long as possible, he said : 

“Bill, you know I am your friend, donT you?’^ 

“Why yes. Van, of course; what makes you ask such 
a question answered Bill in blank astonishment. 
Van moved about nervously for a moment and con- 
tinued : 

“Well, Bill, it’s very hard to tell you, but the boys 
have all agreed that it is my duty to do so, though I 
had much rather someone else had the job.” 

“Great gosh. Van! what on earth have I done? If 
I’ve done any devilment while I was drunk, God knows 
I am ready to fix it all right if I possibly can. And 
I tell you right now that a man is a blank fool to drink 
the cussed stuff, and if I get out of this I’ll never tetch 
another drop as long as my name is Bill Spencer.” Bill 
didn’t know what was the matter, but from Van’s tone 
and actions he thought it was very serious. 

“Well, if must, I must, and the sooner it is over 
the better,” said Van at last, prolonging the poor fel- 
low’s misery as long as possible. “You know. Bill, that 
there ain’t a boy on the ranch but had much rather suf- 
fer himself than to cause you any pain, and that is what 
makes it so hard for me to tell you. I only do so for 
your own good. The truth is. Bill, when you get drunk, 
you always die; yes, sir, you die as dead as a herring. 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


29 


You always get back to the ranch all right, with your 
horse and dogs. You then eat your supper and go to 
sleep. So far all is right, but in an hour or so after 
you go to sleep you begin to grow cold, your pulse 
gets weaker as well as your heart beats, a cold, clammy 
sweat breaks out all over your body, and in half an 
hour more you are just as virtually dead as you will 
be after you are buried six weeks. We have worked and 
worked with you trying to revive you, but it does no 
good, and several times we have given you up entirely. 
Yesterday we sent for Dr. Barton and he came, and 
after working with you for two hours he pronounced you 
dead and advised us to bury you. Well, w© did not 
want to be in any hurry about it, so we determined to 
keep you out for a day or two and see if you would not 
revive, and you came to life again during the night, and 
I tell you w'e were all glad we had not taken the doc- 
tor’s advice and buried you. When you are in that 
condition I don’t believe you would flinch if you were 
laid across a Are, for I tell you that you are as dead 
as a strangled calf.” 

It would be impossible to describe the look of horror 
depicted upon Bill Spencer’s face during this terrible 
recital. He never had the remotest idea that Van was 
telling anything untrue, and when he began to realize 
the dreadful condition of things, the tears rolled unre- 
strained down his sunburned cheeks. The sight of his 
distress nearly caused Van to abandon his scheme, but 
he continued : 

“The main trouble. Bill, is this: You are safe as 
long as you are with your friends, but think of the 


30 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


dreadful consequences if you ever got drunk among 
strangers. Why, they would bury you as sure as you 
live.^^ 

As the tears were coursing down his big, honest face. 
Bill seized Van’s hand and, in a voice choked with 
emotion, said: 

“Van, I’ll never tetch another drop of the blank 
stuff — I won’t, so help me God.” 

For several days Bill was terribly disturbed over the 
affair. He lost his habitual jolly mood, and moped 
around as though he expected to be called any time to 
pass in his checks and fall into the great roundup of 
eternity. He privately had a talk with every boy on the 
ranch, who solemnly declared that the tale was too true. 
He was continually referring to it and constantly call- 
ing down all sorts of bad luck upon his head if he 
“ever fetched another drop.” This was in August and 
Bill held out firm till December. Then Christmas 
rolled around, bringing in its wake the bewitching egg- 
nog and delusive Tom and Jerry, and Bill fell from 
grace and great was the fall thereof. Christmas is a 
bad time for a man to keep sober. Just why a good 
Christian gentleman wants to get drunk in order to 
commemorate the birth of Christ is a problem which 
the writer must respectfully refer to the high classes in 
theology, yet from actual observation as well as painful 
experience, I know said fact exists in a large and annual 
degree. 

On this particular occasion Bill went to Belton on 
some business and before he left the ranch he wisely 
called the boys together and with great solemnity reit- 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


31 


erated his orthodox and customary declaration that he 
never intended to ^^tetch another drop.” He went to 
Belton, attended to his business and then took a walk 
around the town, and in an hour he was decorating the 
village in carmine hues to the general satisfaction of all 
interested parties. 

On this particular occasion it appeared from Bill’s 
actions that he had a yearning ambition to construct a 
hand-made-sour-mash-jag that would eclipse all his for- 
mer efforts in that line in* hilarious intensity and scintil- 
lating brilliancy. For two days and nights he kept up 
his labors, at which time to all appearances he had 
about completed the job to the entire satisfaction of the 
most critical observer. From the incipiency of this 
debauch. Bill had earnestly endeavored to surround him- 
self with as many safeguards as possible. On first get- 
ting up steam he had visited the mayor in person, ex- 
plained his peculiarities to the astonished official and 
warned him to ^^be blank careful in case an)d:hing hap- 
pened.” He next paid his respects to the city under- 
taker, entered into an elaborate statement about his 
habit of suspended animation, and nearly scared that 
meek little man out of his senses by threatening all 
sorts of vengeance if he ever came near his body even 
if he was dead. 

^^Don’t you dare to tetch me even if you see the buz- 
zards settin’ on me,” said Bill, ^'for if you do I’ll rise 
up a shootin’. I will, by gosh.” 

All things earthly must end, and so did Bill’s spree, 
and at last he managed to mount Silver Heels, and that 
fleet, hardy, little cow pony lit out for the ranch in a 


32 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


gallop, reeling gracefully from side to side to accom- 
modate Bill’s unsteady seat in the saddle. 

“Great Scott ! yonder comes Bill with more dogs and 
a bigger jag than usual/’ said Van, as that worthy hove 
in sight and announced his coming with the customary 
war whoop. “Now we’ve got him, boys, and I’ll bet we 
come very near making a Christian out of him before 
we get through with him.” 

Bill swept down upon the crowd of grinning cowboys 
like a hawk on the barnyard’ and sure enough he had 
not only secured a rich and racy bouquet of rare canine 
hybrids, but his selection of presents embraced a much 
wider field than usual. On this occasion there was not 
only the orthodox collection of useless and worthless gim- 
cracks, but there was included in this layout a gorgeous 
array of delicate feminine toilet articles that were en- 
tirely out of their latitude on a stock ranch. 

The distribution of Bill’s presents was always at- 
tended with the most noisy and boisterous hilarity, each 
laugh or yell being taken as an evidence of extreme 
gratification of the lucky man who was the recipient 
of such a valuable gift. After each one had received 
and praised his present. Bill said: 

“Now see here, fellows, I’m goin’ to sleep and — and — 
you be d — d careful. You know what I mean.” They 
promised to be unusually cautious and Bill rolled up in 
a blanket and laid down on the ground near the fire. 
In a few minutes he uncovered his head and said, “Boys, 
if anything happens don’t you let nobody tetch me un- 
der six weeks; I’m mighty sleepy this time,” and the 
poor fellow was soon snoring as loud as a fog horn. 


K. Lamitt’s Texas Tales. 


33 


The boys knew he was off for at least twenty-four 
hours, so they let him lie until next evening in peace, 
and then the preparations were began for the funeral. 
They placed Bill in a big empty box that was four sizes 
too large for the purpose and screwed the lid down, 
leaving plenty of ventilation, and just before sundown 
they carried their burden down to a deep gully that was 
near by and placed it therein. Then the gang of about 
'twenty big fellows gathered on either side of the gully 
to await for the first signs of life in the box before be- 
ginning the obsequies. Two of them were armed with 
spades, and when at last a few short, sharp snorts, and a 
movement in the box were heard, two big spadefuls of 
gravel and small stones were poured slowly upon the top 
of the box, while twenty voices in stentorian tones 
sang : — 

^^Hark from the tomb a doleful sound 
My ears attend the cry. 

Ye living men, come view the ground 
Where you may shortly lie.’’ 

Hostilities opened at once. As the gravel began to 
pour down on the hollow receptacle, producing an un- 
earthly clatter, and the lusty voices arose in unison to 
that funeral dirge, 

^Tnstant there rose so wild a yell. 

It seemed that every imp that fell 
Had pealed the banner-cry of hell,” 

and the boys knew Bill was awake. The gravel fell 
faster, the song rose louder, and so did Bill’s 
war whoops. 


34 : 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


“Whoope-e-e-e/’ he yelled, flouncing and kicking- 
against the box, cansing it to rock from side to side. 
‘^Gosh almighty, boys, stop the funeral— stop ^er for 
God’s sake stop ’er — it’s me — it’s Bill Spencer — I ain’t 
dead — I’m alive — ^honest I am — can’t you hear, you 
blank idiots — Oh, Lord, have mercy — I’ll never tetch an- 
other drop of whisky — Oh Lord, I won’t — I’ll swear I 
won’t — who-o-p-e-e — Oh, Lord — police, police — ye-e-e- 
oop ! gosh amighty, stop the funeral — head it off some- 
body — confound them infernal fools, I told ’em to be 
careful — Oh, Lord, make us thankful for what we are 
about to receive — now I lay me dawn to — who-o-pe-e-e-e 

— d your hides, why don’t you stop the funeral — 

Oh, Lord, I’m gone' — I’m gone — oh a-a-a-h,” and his 
voice sank too low to be heard. 

The services stopped at once, and the boys thought 
that probably Bill had fainted from terror, and were 
beginning to be sorry on account of the joke, when he 
said: “Well, I’m dead and buried. Don’t this beat 

h .” Then came a roar of laughter from the boys, 

and Bill called out, “Is that you, boys? Is that you. 
Van? Say, I’m alive, honest I am, dig me out please, 
and see for yourselves.” 

In two minutes the lid was off the box. Bill scrambled 
to the top of the gully, took in the situation at a glance, 
and turning towards the house, remarked, “Well, I’ll be 
blowed.” He never resented the joke in the least, but 
would often say, “I tell you I was too glad to get out to 
think of gettin’ mad. But, boys, I’ll never tetch an- 
other drop.” 

And he never did. Twenty years have passed. Many 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


35 


of those big fellows have gone to their last sleep, and 
so has poor Bill Spencer. He was accidentally killed in 
trying to prevent a fight between two friends, but there 
is not one of his old comrades living who has not got 
hidden safely away some little trinket which he values 
very highly, and on which is inscribed, present from 
Bill Spencer — the best man that ever lived.’^ 

DIVORCES AND THE REASON WHY. 


Divorces are increasing in the United States to an 
alarming extent. Marriage vows, the most sacred and 
binding obligations known to man, are pulled apart like 
burnt pack-thread, or snapped as easily as rotten sticks. 
The man and woman, who in their youthful strength 
and beauty knelt before God’s altar and swore with 
bowed heads to ^fiove, cherish and honor” each other 
until death should claim one or both, now walk brazenly 
into a court room and ask some spike-headed Judge to 
sever a chain forged by the hand of Almighty God, and 
voluntarily assumed by themselves. 

I do not believe a marriage contract can ever be Justly 
abrogated. It is a contract instituted by the Creator 
which he gave and is agreed to at the own volition of the 
parties entering into it. It is an institution originated 
by God himself when he gave unto Adam the blushing 
Eve as a comfort and solace in his earthly career. With 
His mighty hand He Joined them together ^^as long as 
they should live,” and the only witnesses to that solemn 
compact, outside of the Creator, were the angels of 


36 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


heaven and the animals and beasts of the forest. After 
that ceremony they 'were married for eternity, and all 
the human courts of earth could never justly dissolve 
that solemn obligation. 

The fact that Adam was a disreputable old rascal and 
turned State’s evidence against his own wife has nothing 
to do with the case. 

Yet every day we see the human courts dissolving, or 
alleging to dissolve, this partnership eternal. They may 
succeed in satisfying society and the consciences of the 
interested parties, but that is all. In heaven's record 
the contract stands and will stand forever. 

So far as I have been able to judge by personal obser- 
vation and authentic history, .where a divorce is deemed 
necessary, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred the 
fault lies with the man. Close inspection will prove 
this to be true, and, assuming it as a fact, let us look 
for the cause. Men have a reason, real or imaginary, 
for all deliberate, sober actions. I will admit that you 
frequently see a man commit a deed that is difficult 
to account for, but if you knew the secret impulse that 
prompted him to do so, there would be no mystery con- 
nected with the incident. 

In divorce cases, no doubt there are different motives 
and incidents that contribute to bring on the separation. 
Anger, pride and jealousy are without doubt the prime 
incentives to action, but of all these three, the latter 
is the principal reason. In plain English, the woman 
is jealous of the man, with or vuthout cause. 

I believe as a rule she has just reason to be jealous 
of her haughty lord, not necessarily because he is de 


K. Lamitt^s Texas Tales. 


37 


facto guilty, but bis actions and habits are such as 
wbuld convict him on circumstantial evidence in any 
court of justice, much less in the eyes of a jealous wife. 

A man’s work necessarily takes him from his famiJy 
during all if not the entire day. The loving wife stays 
at home all through the dull dreary hours of his ab- 
sence, busied with the endless, monotonous duties of the 
household, and longing for the time when Charlie’s 
work will be over and she can greet him with a kiss at 
the door. This thought is her hope, her fondest wish, 
her heartfelt prayer, and, disappointed in it, her sole 
relief is in tears and despair. 

If the couple are fortunate and children have crept 
into their household to tear up furniture and deluge the 
home with endless meteoric showers of joy and gladness, 
these little mischief makers, these geysers of human 
happiness, tend to shorten the wife’s weary hours of 
waiting, but even they are merely reminders of the joy 
in store for her when she hears the husband’s footsteps 
at the gate. 

The noon hour comes and it is dinner time in the lit- 
tle hoihe. Charlie, Jr., and Miss Nellie, who have about 
finished their work of disarranging the contents of the 
cosy little parlor, are ravenously hungry, and clamoring 
to be led in an attack on the dining room. Mamma 
goes to the window for the hundredth time and gazes 
wistfully down the long street, but Charlie, Sr., is not 
in sight. Finally, with a brave effort to keep back the 
tears, she leads the little ones over to the dining room, 
and as they laugh and eat, she consoles herself with 
trying to trace a likeness of the absent husband in the 


38 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


pink and white faces of the handsome children. But 
she never fails to see in the bright eyes and merry laugh 
of her children some cherished memory of the ^^old 
days/^ when she sat and listened to the tender tales of 
love spoken by the man she loves better than her own 
life. 

Charlie don’t come to dinner. ^^His business keeps 
him” is the final excuse of the wife as she takes the 
children down from their high chairs and returns to 
her cheerless work. Night comes on and the scene is 
re-enacted. The babies are fed, undressed, and, after 
kneeling at mother’s knee and repeating their childish 
prayers to God, are kissed and put to bed. 


Ten o’clock comes; the little ones are asleep. An- 
other hour passes and the big city clock pounds out 
eleven dull strokes that sends as many cold chills 
through every nerve of the weary window watcher. Ever 
and anon she leaves the lattice to bend tenderly over the 
tiny double bed and kiss the lips of the infant sleepers. 
They are far away in happy Dreamland and smile in 
their sleep, but when the mother leaves them their 
baby faces are wet with tears that never came from 
their innocent eyes. 

Hour after hour passes, but Charlie does not come. 
Every sound grates upon the nerves of the anxious 
waiter. The rasping cricket, safely hid in some secret 
place, sounds like the roar of a freight train. The tick 
of the clock on the mantel makes her nervous. The 
window shutter shaken by the breeze startles her into 
. an involuntary shudder. This is the desperate period 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


39 


in which she reviews the happy hours of her maiden- 
hood and her wooing, and contrasts that time with the 
present. It is no wonder that her heart cries out in 
the helplessness of despair, and that, exhausted with 
unavailing weeping, wearied nature asserts itself, and 
she falls asleep on the chair by the window, only to 
resent in dreams this heartless and unnecessary neglect 
of her excuse of a husband. 


Let me draw a good thick curtain over this scene 
and go down town and hunt up Charlie. Where do I 
find that delectable and immaculate recipient of mis- 
placed confidence ? Is he at his office wearily scanning 
his business accounts or posting his ledger? 

Hot on your shirtwaist. 

I find him hanging by his elbows on to the horizontal 
bar that ornaments a saloon counter, and entertaining 
a squad of ^^sweaters” with a display of oratory that 
would make Cicero jump into a cistern and suicide 
with envy. About every sTeen minutes he ^^sets ’em up” 
to the intense delight of the ^^sweaters” and the ex- 
treme satisfaction of the drink mixer. Then he orates 
some more, and when the applause has partially ceased, 
he orders more liquor and, like Little Jack Horner, he 
considers himself the entire railroad system, including 
track, rolling stock and right of way. His face looks 
like a twin brother to a warmed-over Hamburger steak 
and his breath has a flavor that would chase a fitchew 
off the block. He has probably been standing at that 
■counter, or one similar, ever since six o’clock. It is now 
^:30 in the morning and he has no idea of leaving. 


40 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


When he is finally put in a carriage at four o'clock, 
a. m., and tumbled out at his gate, is he not a bewitch- 
ing specimen of a masculine exotic to meet his heart- 
broken wife and innocent children? Is he not a scintil- 
lating gem of rarest ray serene that comes to shed light 
over the household and also specimens of free lunch 
and mixed drinks over the carpet? Is it any wonder 
that the wife declines the proffered kiss, literally 
^fiiorned off” by his 1500 horse-power breath that is 
strong enough to use as a clothes-line? 

When he finally undresses and distributes his cloth- 
ing over the entire room, is it strange that he turns up 
the cover from the foot of the bed and then crawls under 
it and goes to sleep on the fioor? To make matters 
worse, is it cause for comment when his wife picks up 
his clothes and seventy-five red, white and blue poker 
chips drop out of his pocket, accompanied by a pic- 
ture of a handsome woman? Ho matter if the photo 
was given him by some equally drunken acquaintance. 
No matter if the original of the picture is utterly un- 
known to him or his drunken friend. The wife does not 
know it, and he has lied to her so often she finds diffi- 
culty in crediting his statements even when she knows 
they are true. 

‘^But that would not be sufficient reason for a di- 
vorce,” exclaims some sentimental apologist for mascu- 
line razor-hacks. 

Perhaps not, but believing that sauce for a goose 
would be the Worcestershire for the gander, let’s reverse 
the picture. Suppose the wife staid out only one little 
evening until four o’clock in the morning, leaving the 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


41 


poor, innocent, helpless hnsband at home with the 
babies, and then came home drnnk as a delegate with 
her pockets full of beer corks and photos of fine looking 
men. What would Charlie, the beer saint, do? The 
blowing up of the Maine at Havana would be a fire 
cracker compared to the fate of that poor woman. 

This one habit of leaving the wife alone at home to 
brood over happier days is, in my opinion, the prime 
reason for family troubles, which, sooner or later, wreck 
erstwhile happy households. I will do the men the jus- 
tice to say that by far the majority of them are true to 
their marital vows in every respect, except drinking 
and staying away from their families, but the trouble 
is, the. wife donT believe it, and, under the circum- 
stances, she is not to blame. 

Some of these divorce cases may arise over outbursts 
of hasty tempers, but as a rule their foundation is on 
account of jealousy. 

So far as a remedy is concerned, I see none, except 
it be the voluntary reformation of husbands, and that 
is like trying to bore an artesian well with a knitting 
needle. If men would be onlv one-half as attentive to 
their wives after marriage as they were before the vows 
were taken, you would find each home a little concen- 
trated Paradise, where love reigned supreme and where 
tears, regrets and heartaches were forever barred. If 
this is not true, why not? 


42 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


ONLY A COUPLE OF POEMS* 


It is not at all difficult to write poetry if you once get 
yourself keyed up properly. Man’s soul is an instru- 
ment, an inyisible Aeolian harp, which, when properly 
tuned and swept by a hurricane of the divine afflatus, 
will give out rhythmic rafts of melody to a frightened 
and impudent public. 

For instance, when an editor is tuned down eternally 
to B flat, there is very little poetry or anything else in 
him. views things as through a glass, darkly.” 

It is usually through a glass and, as a rule, it is ceiling 
nails that greets his anxious eyes. But just let the big, 
benevolent face of an American dollar shed its 16 to 1 
rays upon his benighted vision, and chunks of poetry 
float to the surface as readily as corks ride the water. 

I have been perusing William Watson’s ‘^Hymn to 
the Sea, ’’which appeared in The Yellow Boole several 
years ago, when without the customary warning, my 
mind seemed to soar suddenly aloft, and I reveled in 
visions of ecstatic rapture. 

The first stanza was what jacked me up to the sky, 
figuratively speaking. It was certainly superb, as can 
be readily seen by perusing it. 

^^Grant, 0 regal in bounty, a subtle and delicate largess. 

Grant an etherial alms out of the wealth of my soul ; 

Suffer a tarrying minstrel, who finds and not fashions 
his numbers — 

Who, from the commune of air, cages the volatile 
song — 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


43 


Here to capture and prison some fugitive breath of 
thy descant, 

Thine and his own, as thy roar lisped on the lips of a 
shell. 

Now while the vernal impulsion makes lyrical all that 
hath language. 

While through the veins of the earth riots the ichor of 
Spring, 

While with throes, with rapthres, with loosing of bonds, 
with unsealings — 

Arrowy pangs of delight, piercing the core of the 
world — 

Tremors and coy unfoldings, reluctances, sweet agita- 
tions — 

Youth, irrepressibly fair, wakes like a wondering rose.” 

No sooner had I perused that soul elevator than the 
thought arose, ^WVhy not write something similar or 
possibly a little more so?” ^Tis true, I had spent the 
greater portion of my life upon the oscillating hurricane 
deck of a Texas cow pony and had seldom sat upon the 
beach and watched the “Oh sea, break upon thy sands,” 
but I had watched many other things break beside waves 
and cinch girths, so, "nothing daunted, I gathered up 
the reins of my poetical locoed Pegasus, planted a pair 
of Spanish spurs into his panting flanks, with the fol- 
lowing result: 

I stand by thy bedside. Oh Ocean, and ask not thy gen- 
tle permission 

To swallow a morsel of foglet, or slap at your misty 
mosquitoes — 


44 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


I gaze on thy uncovered bosom, all sparkling with 
dampness and wetness, 

And think you extremely immodest, to sport in the 
presence of strangers. 

On the hurricane deck of a broncho IVe sailed o’er the 
beautiful prairies 

And tugged at the end of a lasso encircling the loins of 
a beeflet, 

I have gazed on the flush of the grapelet and grappled 
the willowy schooner — 

I have fought the unchewable sandwich and lunch coun- 
ter pie to a finish — 

Committed all manner of evil save voting republican 
tickets — 

I’ve bucked at the emerald table and watched my red 
chiplets diminish 

Until I have asked for a quarter of the silent man up 
in the lookout — 

Gone broke on the delusive monte, and won on a bluff 
pure and simple — 

But, Oh Sea, I’ll be dadgummed if you aint always on 
the break! 

In the above I court and solicit the closest scrutiny in 
comparison with Mr. Watson’s poem, and while frankly 
admitting that he may have possibly outstripped me in 
metre, I believe I have waltzed him when it comes down 
to hard horse sense. It isn’t often that I get keyed up 
poetically, but when I do I simply mean business. 


K. Lamitt^s Texas Tales. 


45 


HOW JOHN M* DUNCAN LEARNED TO 
SPEAK SPANISH IN TEN HOURS. 


In 1898 I was a resident of the City of Mexico. Hot 
a natnralized citizen, but almost one. During my long 
stay in the ancient capital city of the Aztecs, I had the 
pleasure of meeting many American friends, who came 
to see the country, but among the entire lot I mostly 
enjoyed the visit of Hon. John M. Duncan, of Tyler, 
Texas, and Col. Leroy Trice, of Palestine, Texas, at 
that time, and also at this time general manager of the 
International & Great Northern Railroad. They sent 
me a telegram from Eagle Pass, and I met them at the 
depot in Mexico City. 

The gentlemen came through on Col. Triceps private 
car, and on arriving decided, at my suggestion, not to 
register regularly at any hotel, but to eat their meals at 
different places in the city where meal time overtook 
them, and sleep in their car. 

At the time of their visit, Judge Duncan was general 
attorney for the International & Great Northern railroad, 
and anyone at all conversant with the gentleman will 
readily agree with me in the assertion that he is one of 
the most successful railway lawyers in Texas. In ad- 
dition to his legal abilities, the judge, on this particular 
occasion, bloomed out in an entirely new role — towit, a 
linguist — and it is my intention in this article to tell 
how he learned, in ten hours, to speak the Spanish lan- 
guage in a fluent and turbulent manner. 

I was simply delighted to see J udge Duncan and Col. 


46 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


Trice in Mexico City. I had been in Mexico so long, 
I could hardly speak intelligible English, and the com- 
ing of two old-time friends made me feel gay. Immedi- 
ately on their arrival, I tendered them the freedom of 
the city, which included the privilege of staying as long 
as they wished and also the right to purchase all the 
recently manufactured prehistoric Aztec idols and relics 
the local workmen had on hand. By way of parenthesis 
I will add that the making of ancient relics requires 
much skill in order to give them that mouldy prehis- 
toric look so popular with the excursionist; but I be- 
lieve the Mexicans come nearer the mark than any peo- 
ple on earth. An old Mexican can dig his clay in the 
morning, and by noon can turn out an Aztec god that 
is older than Methuselah. 

Judge Duncan was enthusiastic over the country — 
the climate — the strange, wierd old city — ^the language 
— and during our conversation, I detected him using 
words which, by a Caoutchouc stretch of the imagina- 
tion, I fancied he intended for Spanish. 

In order to satisfy myself, without being impertinent, 
I said: 

^^Why, judge' I see you speak Spanish.^^ 

^‘Well, not perfectly, I^m sure,’^ remarked the judge 
as he tangled his long legs into a four-in-hand knot in 
attempting to cross them, and at the same time biting 
off the end of a big, fat Mexican cigar. “But I find it 
awfully easy — as George P. Brovme, of Athens, Texas, 
remarked when he fell off a log over near King’s Lake 
— but, oh, you see I’ve only studied about ten or twelve 
hours, and really haven’t put in all that time steadily — 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


47 


only did it spasmodically, yon understand — just for 
amusement and not for keeps you know — but really 
I’m glad you noticed it, for without any intention of 
self-praise, I can state that I pick it up as readily as 
a man would pick up chips from — er — oh — table, you 
know — and I consider the speaking of the Spanish 
language a dead easy proposition. How did I learn it? 
Well, you see, while at San Antonio I bought a book 
entitled ‘Tonto’s Ten Hours to Speak Spanish.’ It 
was awful cheap, only cost $2.00 in Mexican money,, 
which you know is only about ninety-two cents in real 
cash. I read the thing through in an hour and almost; 
memorized the whole layout. You’ll notice I use the- 
broad Spanish pronunciation entirely, as Tonto says,, 
it is the correct one. These low native Mexicans, of 
course, don’t speak pure Spanish, and find it hard to* 
understand you, but you have the satisfaction of know- 
ing you are correct. I have talked considerably along 
the route with Mexicans, but have found them ex- 
clusively of the lower type, and as a matter of fact 
can not undertand their own language. However, as 
soon as I strike some of the educated Spaniards I an- 
ticipate no difficulty in conversing with them.” 

I felt delighted to find the judge able to converse in 
the rich, ripe, mellow Spanish language, and ad- 
dressed a few very simple remarks to him in that 
tongue. He suddenly braced up, looked wise, untangled 
his legs, coughed and said, “See Senior.” He evidently 
did not understand a word I said. I had no desire to 
interfere with his ideas concerning the easy mastery of 
the Castilian language, so I complimented him on his 


48 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


rapid progress, and changed the subject. Shortly after- 
wards I was compelled to leave my friends, promising to 
see them every day, and spend as much time as possible 
with them. They stayed several days and I met them 
■often, and the judge, who by this time had grown con- 
fident of his linguistic ability, never failed to throw the 
Mexican population into fits, trying to figure out what 
language the gentleman spoke. 

I introduced him to Don Manuel Yglesias Comosiamo, 
s, Spanish merchant who did not speak a word of Eng- 
lish. The judge grasped his hand, looked him straight 
in the face, tried to pronounce the name, and then rat- 
tled off about half of Tonto^s book in ten seconds, with 
a pronunciation that would have thrown a Chinaman 
into feline jim-jams or made a Russian driver jump out 
of his kibitka. Don Manuel bowed and scraped, and 
turning to me in all candor, asked in Spanish : ‘Ts tJie 
gentleman Norwegian?’^ 

When I told him in Spanish the gentleman was an 
American, and was trying to speak Spanish, his face 
never changed. A Spaniard or a Mexican will never 
laugh at you when you make mistakes. They are very 
sensitive to ridicule, and are polite enough to never give 
offense. The judge said, after leaving Don Manuel, 
that it was simply an iridescent dream of joy to visit 
a foreign country and meet an intelligent man who 
could speak his native language. I said I believed it 
was. 

Next day I dropped in at the Sanz Hotel to get a 
good Mexican dinner, and was just beginning to eat, 
when in stepped Judge Duncan and Col. Trice. I was 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


49 


seated in an alcove of the dining room, partly screened 
by a curtain, and started to call them when I heard the 
judge say : 

^^Oh donT you worry. Trice. 1^11 do all the ordering, 
and we’ll have a dinner that will curl your eyelashes. 
K. Lamity Bonner says I speak Spanish pure and sim- 
ple, and if I can only get an educated waiter I’ll make 
him sick at the stomach before he gets through with 
me.” The temptation was too great — I remained silent, 
and the big show started. The judge made the one mis- 
take so common to people trying to speak a foreign 
language. He labored, under the delusion that the 
louder he yelled, the easier he would be understood. 

^^Here — undely — scoot — boosky — vengah a key — wait- 
er — mozo — Jerusalem, get a move on you — cuidado and 
bring us cena — dinner — grub — something to eat, you 
mop-headed monkey. You see,” said the judge turning 
to Col. Trice, ^^you have to be positive with these fel- 
lows.” 

The poor waiter jumped about three feet straight up, 
lit by the judge’s chair, and asked, ^^Que dice Senor?” 
(what did you say, sir?) 

^^What sort of dish is kaydesy? Oh, yes, I under- 
stand — I savvy — it’s boiled kale and bacon — a good old 
East Texas dish — ain’t got any baked ’possum and 
potatoes have you hombre ? What ? Shut up while I’m 
talking and don’t dance around here like a boy fighting 
bumble bees. See Senior — muchachy como, see amo, 
este, adyose, pull out, skin out, fiy, boosky> let er go Gal- 
lagher.” 

The frightened waiter never moved. He kinder 


50 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


trembled and asked, ^^Quere sopa?” (Do you wish 
soup?) 

“Great Gosh ! you splintered fragment of the defunct 
Aztec empire/’ yelled the judge. “What on earth do 
you imagine we want with soap ? Do you eat soap down 
here, you adonde voy, como moochy grashious, hombre, 
waynos deas, waynos nochas, hoopla, poco tempo, toto, 
get out and bring us dinner or I’ll break your neck.” 
As he finished he held up a bill of fare and swiped his 
finger down the paper. The waiter heard the word 
“toto,” which means “the whole” or “all of it,” and with 
a swift “Si Senor” he lit out at full speed for the 
kitchen. The judge leaned back, rubbed his hands, and 
said : 

“You see. Col. Trice, I make a mistake in speaking 
English to the ignorant Mexicans. They don’t under- 
stand half of it. I do it before I think. But did you 
observe the trojectory he got on him when I spoke Span- 
ish?” Colonel Trice said he did. ' I had also noticed 
it. 

The mozo brought in soup. Everything was working 
like Beaumont oil. A first-class Mexican dinner con- 
sists of seventeen courses. Fourteen of these are meats. 
They may be all cut from the same animal, but you’ll 
never recognize them by the taste. Mexican cooks only 
know fourteen real strong flavors, or they would add 
more courses of meat to a first-class dinner. 

After al)out the seventh course of some sort of meat, 
seasoned with pepper, onions, garlic, horseradish, cavi- 
are, jimpson weed and mustard, the judge said : 

“For God’s sake, old cucumber, ain’t you going to 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


51 


run short on meat? Do you think us totally carniver- 
ous?” Senor/^ said the waiter, who fancied the 

gentlemen wanted another course, and in a minute he 
rushed in with another dish of meat of an ancient and 
antique flavor. 

I noticed the look of ' grim determination on the 
judge’s face as he tackled the meat. Col. Trice sighed, 
but ate away in helpless solemn silence. In a few min- 
utes there was a rush, a swish, a swirl, and in came the 
waiter with another layout of pale blonde meat which 
looked like it might have been cooked two weeks before 
and had been overlooked in the shuffle. The judge 
looked at Trice, and Trice looked at the judge. Neither 
one said a word, but each dived into the meat like a 
young duck into a dough-pile. When the mozo cleared 
off the dishes the judge remarked: 

^^Trice, I’ll be hanged if I haven’t eat meat until I 
feel like a lame hound on a camp hunt. If I stepped 
out on the street every dog in town would get on my 
trail under the impression I was a butcher wagon. I 
guess we will likely get a change now.” At this mo- 
ment in sailed the waiter, triumphantly bearing two 
steaming dishes of stewed meat, that sent out a flavor 
only known to the casino Mexicano, 

A kodak picture of the judge would have been worth 
the photos of a thousand men. With a look of utter 
helplessness and resignation upon his face, the judge 
seized his knife and fork and said: ^‘Trice, I got you 
into this, but stick to me and we’ll eat out of it or bust.” 
As the waiter was removing the dishes, the judge evi- 


62 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


dently feared more meat, for he stopped the mozo and 
said in very firm tones : . 

^^Oyez — poco tempo, you degenerate specimen of the 
Aztec monarchy, this thing has gone far enough. Do 
you savvy? Are you trying to transform us into a 
couple of packing house samples, or are you working 
off on us an overflow from a meat factory? We don’t 
want any more came — meat — do you savvy, understand, 
comprehendo? We’ve already been stuffed with baked 
meat, boiled meat, fried meat, stewed meat, roast meat, 
broiled meat, cold meat, hot meat, raw meat, barbecued 
meat, chopped meat, dry meat, wet meat, and a lot of 
other blank meats whose names I do not remember. 
I’ve ate meat till I can never look another cow in the 
face without blushing. Now, be kind enough to 
boosky and cuidado and undely and poco tempo and 
bamanos and so on, and tell us what we owe and we’ll 
try and pay for the entire beef market. Savvy? My 
Lord, Trice, I’d give a $10 bill if Kay would happen 
in here.” ‘^Si Senor — uno momento,” said the waiter, 
and in three minutes here he came with a lot of hashed 
meat, fried in balls. 

Then the judge grew frantic, shoved the meat back, 
and went down in his pocket, as I thought, for a pistol. 
Instead, he pulled out Tonto’s ^^Spanish in Ten Hours” 
and turning to page 27 read the riot act to that mozo, 
who was trembling like an aspen. The truth compels 
me to state that the terrified mozo had no idea as to 
what the judge was talking about, but he evidently 
knew the gentleman did not want hash-balls, for he 
gathered up the dishes and rushed out. 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


53 


"It worries me to talk to an idiotic galoot w'ho can 
not understand his own language,” said the judge, "but 
you noticed how quick he understood me when I got 
down to bed rock. Tonto’s book is a wonder. God of 
Israel ! Here comes the blank idiot with more meat. 
Oh ! my Lord ! How on earth will we stop him ? Tonto 
don’t say a word on that line. Everything in the ^hotel 
department’ is for ordering, and nothing about how to 
stop them. Well, just be quiet. Trice, and I’ll get you 
out of this. Sail in and let’s finish this mass of black 
meat, and I’ll tell the waiter we don’t want any more. 
Of course he will rush out for another batch of misfit 
stews, and while he is gone we will skin out of here and 
make a break for the street.” 

"But won’t they follow us and arrest us?” suggested 
Col. Trice. 

"Why, of course. That’s what I want. If I knew 
how to call a policeman I would have been arrested an 
hour ago. Just as soon as we are arrested the police- 
man will march us back here and we can pay our bill 
and stop this everlasting meat diet.” 

The judge gave the waiter some more Spanish and 
the waiter made a dive for the kitchen. The judge 
seized his hat to start, when I called: "Say, what’s 
your hurry?” I had put on my hat and pretended I 
had just come in. The judge knew my voice. I had 
"called” him on other occasions. 

"Is that you, Kay? Thank God we are saved. For 
heaven’s sake come here and try and stop this bullet- 
headed fragment of an extinct aristocracy before he 
founders us on meat. Why do you know that I have 


54 : 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


eaten meat till I could not get out of the way of a 
funeral procession? I never was so glad to see you in 
my life. I got him started all right, but all hades 
couldn’t choke him off from the beef market. He has 
stuffed me till I feel like an endless link of bologna 
sausage.” At this moment in dashed the waiter with 
another huge stew. Both the judge and Col. Trice 
dropped in their chairs and looked appealingly at me. 

‘^Saints and sandpipers,” yelled the judge. ^^Are we 
bound to eat this?” 

I thought it time to interfere, so I said to the mozo in 
Spanish : 

^^The gentlemen are delighted with their dinners. 
They do not care for any more. Do me the favor to 
bring me tres botelles cervasa de Carta Blanca.” ^^Con 
^ mucho gusto, sehor,” said the servant. ^^Tell the gen- 
tlemen I have not understood a word they said, but I 
am glad I pleased them. Also do me the great favor 
to tell the gentlemen that there are two or three more 
courses of meat due them, if they so desire.” 

Judge Duncan, the mozo says there are several 
courses of meat still due you. What must he do with 
them ?” 

^^Tell him to eat ’em and charge ’em to me. From 
this day on I am a vegetarian.” 

In a few moments we had the ^Tres botelles cervasa 
de Carta Blanca,” whatever that is, and all was well. 
As we reached the street the judge pulled a pamphlet 
from his pocket, hurled it into the gutter, and said : 

^^There goes ‘Tonto’s Spanish in Ten Hours.’ I can 
speak the language all right, but the dad-burned galoots 
can’t understand me. Hereafter, I’ll make signs.” 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


65 


A QUEER MAN WITH A QUEER OCCUPA- 
TION. 


I really believe I am at heart a socialist. By this I 
do not mean to convey the idea that I am in favor of 
an ‘^even divide” on all this world’s goods, notwith- 
standing the fact that I would be the gainer by such 
transaction, but I simply mean I am , social. I like 
people. The fact that a man is dressed in a tailor- 
made suit, or a hand-me-down misfit, slices very few 
tomatoes so far as I am concerned. I simply like folks, 
and they can’t help themselves. 

The Apostle Paul wrote a letter to Timothy, sixty- 
five years after the birth of Christ, in which he said 
in substance: 

Dear Tim : The love of money is the root of 
all evil.” 

I believe every word of that sentence. He did not 
say money was the root of all evil, but the love of it, 
or covetousness, was what raised sand with its devotees. 

I have never loved money very much. If I have a 
dollar or two more than I actually need, I seldom fail 
to run up on some worthy man who needs a dollar or 
two, and he gets it. 

Some people are needlessly alarmed on account of 
the spirit of socialism that is spreading over the United 
States. They appear to labor under the impression 
that the day may come when men will have and hold 
all things in common, as one family. This will never 
occur, for the simple reason that all men’s natures 
differ just as all things in nature differ, no two objects 


66 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


on earth being exactly alike. Every rock, every tree, 
every blade of grass, every grain of sand, has its dis- 
tinct individuality. Nature turns out one cast, and 
then destroys the mould forever. 

If you give every man on earth one million dollars 
each, their actions will still be as widely dissimilar as 
when some are rich and others poor. Some would sit 
down and do nothing. I believe I would join that 
squad myself. Others, who are now idle, shiftless 
fellows, would be spurred up to a Wabash move and 
work like politicians at a state convention. So you see 
socialism in its generally accepted term will never be- 
come a reality. 

Speaking of avocations reminds me that some men 
adopt certain lines of work from choice that would 
prove absolutely obnoxious to others. As men grow 
older their tastes also change. I remember that as a 
boy I longed to be a clerk in a country store, where I 
could smell crackers, canned salmon, cove oysters, and 
sardines, and bite off a mouthful of barber pole stick 
candy whenever I wished. I wouldn’t like that job 
now. However, as I started out to tell about a man 
with a queer occupation, I will mount my literary 
motor cycle and puff. 

* * sN * * * * * 

I was on board the Cotton Belt train in 1897, bound 
for St. Louis, Mo-., via Delta. 

The train stopped a few minutes at Fair Oaks, in 
Arkansas, and I stepped from the train to stretch my 
weary limbs, and get a breath of the fresh morning 
air that came sweeping through the tall pine trees. 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


6T 


As I alighted, a tall, cadaverous looking man, carry- 
ing a pillow case half filled with something unknown 
to the writer, came up to where I stood, and asked : 

^‘Be this the train for Deity 

^‘Yes, this is the Delta train, sir; but be quick, we 
leave in just sixty-five seconds.” 

As a matter of fact I did not know whether the train 
left in one minute of one hour, but I had a frantic de- 
sire to see my elongated friend get a decent move on 
himself, which he proceeded to do without further 
parley. He made a wild dash for the steps, scrambled 
noisily on board, and dived into the car like a frog into 
a mill pond. 

I followed him in to enjoy his antics, and was very 
much chagrined to see him lift my baggage from my 
seat, place it hastily in the aisle, and settle down on 
the cushions with his pillow case clutched tightly in 
his arms. There were numerous vacant seats in the 
car, but be seemed to like mine best, so I took one 
just behind him. From the manner in which he had 
appropriated my seat, I began to fancy the man had 
once been a drummer. In a few minutes the con- 
ductor passed through and secured the man^s ticket: 
(which was placed conspicuously in his hat band), so^ 
I took a good look at my new discovery in repose. 

He was a queer looking specimen of humanity, and 
at an international exhibition of ugly men would have 
won the prize in a walk. He was apparently about 
forty-five years of age. His hair was very thin, very 
straight, of a light blonde color, and hung in wisps 
over his shoulders. His eyes were about the size of a 


58 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


large buckshot, pale blue and watery, and set close to- 
gether. His nose was long, thin, and curled like the beak 
of a parrot; his mouth was small, and he held his lips 
in a position that indicated a habit of whistling for 
dogs. The extreme sterile appearance of his bony face 
was probably what caused his beard to concentrate on 
the end qf his chin, and even in that favored locality 
there was not a sufficient quantity of the William goat 
trade mark to have entitled the owner to representa- 
tion in a populist committee room. He was over six 
feet high, and most of his length was monopolized by 
his legs, which seemed to connect with the main line 
just under his arms. As he sat on the seat his knees 
came up to a level with his breast, and he grasped his 
pillow case of baggage tightly as though suspicious of 
everyone in the car. 

After going some distance I remarked to him : 

^^This looks like a fine country for game.” 

He tightened his grip on his baggage and finally re- 
plied : 

^‘Wall, yes, thar be a right peart lot of game here- 
abouts if er feller knows how to find it.” 

I seemed to have struck the keynote when I men- 
tioned hunting to my newly discovered human freak, 
and he soon began to thaw out. 

^^What business do you follow ?” I ventured to ask. 

^H’m a squir’l turner.” 

^^A what?” I asked in astonishment. 

“A squir’l turner,” he repeated. ^^You see I knows 
this country ^round here like a razor-back hawg knows 
a crack in a cornfield fence. There be a lot of squir’ls 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


69 


in these here woods, bnt a stranger can’t find ’em, and 
if he does he can’t kill ’em. Wall, ye see when them 
city galoots come down here with their nohammer guns 
and cigaroots, I hires to ’em to turn squir’ls. Ye see 
I fust finds the critter and then puts the galoot in a 
good place, and then I slides round the tree, and when 
the squir’l gits a squint at me he either lets all holds 
loose and falls out, or skins round where the galoot 
can shoot him. Make money? Wall, I should snort. I 
jest makes it hand over fist. I works for fifty cents a 
day furnished — that is, the galoot furnishes the grub, 
licker and tobacco. I never makes no mistakes. When 
I sees a squir’l he’s got to move out. A squir’l won’t 
stay on the same side of a tree with me a holy second. 
When I grabs a limb and makes my little noise, he’s 
gwinter hunt tall timber with a hole in it.” 

^^What kind of noise do you make that seems to 
frighten the squirrels so?” I asked. 

^‘Wall, I show ye.” He stood up and caught hold 
of the bell cord, and before I realized his intentions he 
began to yank the rope up and down, and at the same 
time, through his closed teeth, gave vent to the most 
unearthly hissing sound I ever heard. It very closely 
resembled the exhaust of an air brake, and the next 
moment the whistle sounded, the train suddenly stop- 
ped, and my long friend took a header down the aisle 
and fell into the lap of ,a very fat, dignified looking 
lady, who promptly utte:red the ^Var whoop of the 
playful and truculent Modocs” and tried to crawl 
through the car window. She was saved by the win- 
dow being too small for her egress; and the conductor 


60 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


came plunging into the car, demanding the name, 
nationality, and mental condition of the man who 
pulled the bell cord. 

We finally satisfied the irate ticket puncher that it 
was an accident, and the train moved on. From the 
exhibition, I decided that a squirrel only displayed or- 
dinary sense in promptly moving out when he saw that 
face and heard that noise. 

After going a short distance my friend continued : 

“Ye see, stranger, squirT turnin’ sorter runs in my 
fambly. My daddy moved from Alabamy to Arkansas 
in ’55 and was the finest squiFl turner and bee hunter 
in the state. When the old man shuck a bush a squir’l 
would jump out’n his hide. This sort of talent runs 
in our whole fambly. I’ve got four sons and they all 
take to the business jest like a hound pup takes to a 
frying pan. I sent my oldest son, Eube, to school for 
six months, and when he had finished his eddycashun 
I wanted him to he a lawyer or a doctor, but he jest 
kept a hankerin’ for squir’ls so I let him go. He’s 
now down on the river workin’ on his own hook. Then 
I’ve got three gals, and they all take to squir’ls. My 
oldest gal, Marthy Jane, is the dead image of me, and 
I tell you she’s a squir’l turner from away back. I 
raally believe she can beat me. Onct I got an old cat 
squir’l up a big pine tree near the house and jest 
couldn’t make him move. I called Marthy Jane, but 
she was sorter shamed to come out and show off before 
the city galoot, but I told her to go ahead. Waal, sir, 
she got holt of a muscadine vine and commenced to 
siz2 and shake, and in a minute that old cat squir’l 


K. Lamitt’s Texas Tales. 


61 


run out on a limb, took a squint at Marthy Jane, and 
jumped out. The galoot missed him, but the fall broke 
his neck. No sirree, a squirT canT look Marthy Jane 
in the face and set still.^^ 

At this moment the train stopped, the porter yelled 
^^Delta,^^ and my squirrol turner grabbed his pillow 
case and made a rush for the door. As he left the car 
I heard a crash on the car steps. The porter informed 
me later that my friend had only dropped a bottle of 
Scotch snuff and was trying to make the station agent 
pay for it. 

^ ^ ^ 

A PEEP INTO THE FUTURE. 


The rapid strides being taken by women to run things 
on this earth alarms me. During the past ten years 
you find women occupying nearly every position which 
a decade ago was considered only proper for men to 
hold. 

They have invaded the business places to an alarm- 
ing extent, and, in fact, there is scarcely a position in 
the mercantile world which you will not find a woman 
holding down. Wherever she is physically able, she 
does the man’s work just as well, if not better, and gets 
less pay, for the simple reason that her boss is a man 
and not a woman. 

If things keep on at the present rate, the positions of 
men and women so far as work is concerned, will be 
reversed, and that is what frightens me. I know I 
would hate to get up early in the morning, dress half 


62 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


a dozen children, cook breakfast, get several of them off 
to school, wash the dishes, and then sit down and sew 
while I was resting before beginning dinner. But the 
way things are going, thaf s what we are coming to, and 
don’t yon make any error about it. 

Again, women are growing so very strong minded it 
scares me. They are forming clubs, they want to vote, 
and I believe they are going to do it. The only con- 
solation I have is the fact that perhaps I may clean up 
my hook before they finally take charge of the compos- 
ing room, and cash in my string at the great business 
office above, where all good newspaper men have to go 
before they ever get paid for their work. 

Just imagine how the daily papers will read one hun- 
dred years hence. I don’t want to be living then, and 
I don’t believe I will. Just for amusement, I have 
turned my mental observation car down the track of the 
future for a century, and I will reproduce a few clip- 
pings taken from the morning Daily Fin De Siecle of 
March 1, A. D. 2002. 

^^A shooting scrape was narrowly averted on North 
Blank street yesterday evening. The trouble arose on 
account of an alleged insult to Algernon Horace, son of 
Mrs. Judge Westingholmes. It seems that Miss Ama- 
zonia Ehodes, who for some months has been paying 
marked attention to young Algernon Horace, is accused 
of not only attempting unwarranted liberties, but of 
using language entirely unbecoming a gentlewoman. 
The offense was promptly reported to his mother by 
Algernon Horace, and also to his sister. Miss Kebecca 
Westinghouse. The latter subsequently met Miss 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


63 


Rhodes in the pool rooms of the Squeezee Club, when ^ 
an altercation ensued. Miss Rhodes drew a pistol, but 
was fortunately disarmed by the chief of police, Mrs. 
Martha Weatherall, before she had done further damage 
than shattering a mirror and shooting off one of her 
own toes. The Daily Fin De Siecle sincerely trusts that 
no further trouble will grow out of the unfortunate 
affair.” 

* * * 

‘‘Only two cases were passed on today in the record- 
er's court. Mrs. Mary Lease Perkins was fined $10 and 
given ten days in jail for cruelty to her son, John, and 
her husband, Mr. Pacific Perkins. The recorder, Mrs. 
John Lucy Smith, also fined Miss Carrie Nation Shel- 
ton $5 and costs for being drunk and disorderly.” 

* ^ * 

“The district court has at last passed on the cele- 
brated divorce ease of Anderson vs. Anderson, granting 
a plea in favor of plaintiff, Mr. Jerry Anderson, giving 
him the custody of the two younger children, Nellie 
and James, and also granting him an annuity of $2,000 
per annum for support of himself and children, and 
the education of the latter. This case has created con- 
siderable interest, the main charge being cruelty to plain- 
tiff and abandonment. The evidence was very pathetic, 
and there were very few men in the court room who did 
not shed tears when Mr. Anderson gave in his testi- 
mony.” 

* * » 

“Society is all agog over the approaching nuptials of 
Miss Frank Lillian Forester to Mr. Bobbie Willie Pat- 


64 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


terson, eldest son of Mrs. and Mr. John Henry Nancy 
Patterson, which will be consummated at St. Jehosa- 
phat’s church next Sunday evening at 8 o’clock, the Kt. 
Eev. Mrs. Mary Sophronio Cartright officiating. Miss 
Forester is one of Bloomertown’s most energetic and 
business-like young ladies, while her fiancee, Mr. Robbie 
Willie Patterson is universally acknowledged to be the 
most accomplished and fascinating young man in the 
city. His social, modest manners and domestic accom- 
plishments endear him to every one. It will be remem- 
bered that he not only won the prize in the Flatland 
Cooking School, but also was an easy winner of the 
elegant diamond necklace offered last year by the 
Bloomertown High School of Embroidery. The recep- 
ition at the residence of the groom’s mother will, no 
doubt, be an elegant affair. A reporter of the Daily 
Fin De Siecle interviewed the bride, who stated that 
shortly after the marriage she would take her husband 
to Florida, where she has large landed interests.” 

^ 

A PLEA FOR THE HOT TAMALE. 


An exchange, in speaking of San Antonio, recently 
said : 

^Tn the Alamo City it is now correctly reported that 
the hot tamale must go.” 

K. Lamity’s Harpoon generally has enough to do to 
'Champion its own inalienable rights, without hunting 
up other people’s battles, hut I never go back on a 
iriend — as long as he has a dollar — yet when I remem- 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


65 


ber how in all the long years of the past the tamale has 
stuck to me, I can not refrain from uttering one long, 
loud, lonesome wail for its safety. It seems to me that 
of all the towns in Texas, San Antonio should cherish 
the cultivation and production of the tamale, for I can 
easily establish the fact that she owes much of her pres- 
ent growth and prosperity to this rare exotic. I re- 
member the good old days when at the first stroke of 
the clock at 6 p. m., dozens of little donkey carts would 
suddenly dart from the adjacent alleys into Military 
Plaza, and in the twinkling of an eye tables were set, 
stoves were heated, and the luscious shuck-covered fruit 
was bought steaming hot at the nominal price of 10 
cents per dozen. 

Coffee, bread, milk (usually goat, or burro) and hot 
tortillas could be had, while the exhilarating chile con 
came was on deck in all its tropical warmness. To a 
stranger, the scene was simply fascinating, while the 
natives themselves were always there as customers. All 
night long the square was a scene of jolly, good-natured 
semi-Spanish life, but at daylight the little carts were 
backed up, the boxes, tinware, and rubbish tumbled in, 
and at a signal off they went, leaving the square clean 
and ready for the day^s business. 

In all this great business, in which thousands of men, 
women and children made a living, the tamale was the 
leading spirit, while other articles were only adjuncts. 
The tamale was the circus — the coffee and chile, the 
side shows. Eich and poor alike patronized the smil- 
ing, black-eyed senoritas, and maybe those degenerate 
daughters of Spanish and Aztec -parentage didn't know 


66 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


how to flirt with the pale-faced Americanos ! Oh, doc- 
tor ! There you could see the poor laboring man, with 
whom luck was playing hide-and-seek, seat himself at 
the table and eat his humble meal, and not enjoying 
the dainty heterogeneous mass of food, fresh from its 
shuck corset, a bit better than the wealthy tourist at his 
side, who not an hour before had eaten a good supper 
at the Hotel Menger, yet could not resist the tempta- 
tion to try the Mexican tamale — for the hot tamale is 
no respecter of persons. 

San Antonio hasnT treated the tamale right. Inch 
by inch it has been driven back from its native haunts, 
until at present it is found only in isolated and desolate 
places, and even there it is wary, timid and difficult to 
approach. Like the American Indian, it has been forced 
to retreat before the onward march of the pale-face, and 
the tamale of years ago is no more like the tamale of 
today than the third party platform is like the Lord’s 
prayer. Where once it flourished beneath the light of 
the moon and a smoky-kerosene torch, now the white 
man spreads his lunch counter in the electric glare, and 
dishes out fly-seasoned indigestible hash to a dyspeptic 
public. 

There is an individuality about a genuine Mexican 
tamale, that is indescribable, and that fadeth not away. 
I always feel sorry for the white man who undertakes 
to counterfeit them, for he invariably makes a scintil- 
lating and roseate failure. 

You may eat the white man’s tamale and may like it, 
but when you eat the genuine Mexican hot tamale you 
long for it forever. As the hart panteth for the water 


K. LAMiTY’fe Texas Tales. 


67 


brook — as the politician panteth for office — so panteth 
your soul for the picture wrapped in its shuck Mother 
Hubbard and done in oil and water colors. You de- 
vour the white man’s imitation tamale, and like Esau 
said to Jacob, you exclaim, “I have enough, my brother !” 
but when the black-eyed senorita with her wealth of 
midnight hair plaited straight down her back, and her 
supple, willowy form, smilingly places a tin plate of the 
genuine tamales before you, you could eat on forever. 
(I mean that you could eat on the tamales, not the girl, 
of course.) 

The true Mexican tamale has never been analyzed. 
Various efforts have been made to ascertain the exact 
composition of this delicious curiosity, but without suc- 
cess. Each scientist or chemist who has made the at- 
tempt has invariably wound up by eating the tamale, 
and classifying it, ^ingredients unknown — compound 
delicious.” You can cut off a Mexican’s supplies at 
the market, yet he will turn out a tamale crop, all the 
same. I believe that a Mexican might be forty miles 
from a beef market, and not a dog or cat within a hun- 
dred miles of him, yet he would gather a prolific crop 
of tamales. The question is, how do they do it ? 

In this article I do not hope to be instrumental in 
even bettering the social or commercial condition of the 
hot tamale. Like the Chinaman, it must go, yet if one 
or the other must be tom from our arms, for God’s sake, 
take the Chinaman and let the tamale go free. A tin 
plate full of hot tamales is worth all the warp-eyed Celes- 
tials ever landed on the Pacific coast. 

Let San Antonio beware ! When she loses the tamale 


68 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


she loses one of her oldest inhabitants and most enter- 
prising citizen. In the upbuilding of the city, in the 
feeding of the people, in the fight against hunger, the 
hot tamale has done more for San Antonio than any 
other factor in that great city. Give the tamale a 
show and it will always come to the front. Yet to the 
beginner I would modestly suggest to not go too heavy 
on the start, for hot tamales are like strong drink, 
^Vhich in the end biteth like a serpent and stingeth like 
an adder.^^ 



^ ^ ^ 


REVIEW OF LAURA JEAN LIBBEY. 


In any book store or on any railway train, you will 
find various alleged novels, bearing the name of Laura 
Jean Libbey, as authoress. 

Did you ever read one of the books written by this 
young journalistic boll weevil? If not, take my advice 
and buy one. You will, of course, always blame me for 
it, but you will never forget your experience. 

I am ashamed to acknowledge it, but many years ago 
I read one of her works entitled ^^Gushing Gussie, or the 
Wild Resolve.^^ That may not be the precise name, but 
it was on that style. When I finished the book, I in- 
tended to write a review of it, but never recovered suf- 
ficiently to do so, until recently. 

I don’t believe Laura Jean ought to write any more 
novels. The specimens now in print will amply suffice 
to carry her name sliding down astraddle the banisters 
of Time, as a gay and giddy young gob of gush, who, if 
she ever had one sane idea, never put it in print. 


K. Lamity's Texas Tales. 


69 


Her heroes do nothing bnt play the fool and act the 
scoundrel, while her heroines spend half their time in 
dead faints and the rest in saying ^^nevah, base creature, 
nevah,"' to the light weight villains. In truth, Laura's 
heavy villains are the most respectable people introduced 
in her stories. 

It has been, as before stated, many years since I read 
‘^‘Gushing Gussie," and the following extracts (which I 
quote from memory), may not be strictly correct, but I 
can remember enough to give you an idea of the free and 
easy style of this she-meteor of modern fiction. 

Corabel's heart was sad. To think that her former 
lover had deserted her for the fair, false Trixy was mad- 
dening. She fiew down the mountain side, not caring 
where she lit, until her beautiful dark eyes, with their 
heavy golden lashes, caught sight of a horseman coming 
furiously along the road. The animal was evidently un- 
manageable, for the rider was sitting deep in the saddle, 
with his limbs clasped tightly to the horse's fianks, and 
both of his snow white and aristocratic looking fingers 
grasping the horn of the muley saddle. 

As the furious steed dashed along the dangerous 
mountain road, where a misstep would hurl horse and 
rider down, down, down to a depth ranging from 730 to 
2370 feet, Corabel could hear the rider exclaim at each 

leap of the beautiful steed: ^‘W-oo-oo, you bow- 

legged, measly, bob-tailed sore backed 

cayote — wo-o-o." The horse came nearer and 

nearer until not over 600 yards separated the lovely 
maiden from the runaway animal. What should she 


70 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


do? In less than 50 minutes she knew she would be 
run over by the furious beast and her body trampled 
into an unrecognizable mass by the steel shod hoofs ! ! 
’Tis strange she never once thought of stepping out of 
the road, but ah ! who can tell the effect of a girFs first 
and only love ! ! But hush ! The beautiful Corabel sud- 
denly pauses ! ! She draws her lithe form to its fuU 
height until her Jenness-Millers are stretched out of 
shape, and clinching her lovely white fingers, exclaims; 

^Tt is Paul Castleton and evidently can not control his 
horse. Ah ! he should not venture out on J ay-Bye-See 
alone. I will save him. Be still, fond heart — be still.^^ 

It was indeed Paul, and while at a distance of 400 
yards, Corabel had caught the glitter of a big solitaire 
diamond stud which he constantly wore, and knew in an 
instant that it was he, for there was no other young 
farmer in all the country who owned so large a diamond 
as Paul Castleton. 

She braced herself in the road, and as the furious 
steed came madly careering towards her, she suddenly 
grasped her snow white skirts in her hands, gave them a 
fiirt and screamed ^^Shoo-o-o-o.” 

The horse stopped. Whether it was the skirt or the 
Jenness-Millers that stopped him was never definitely 
known, but he stopped just as soon. Paul Castleton 
failed to stop when the horse did. He evidently had not 
calculated on the wild ride being so suddenly terminated, 
so instead of stopping he kept on, carrying the beautiful 
red leather muley saddle with him, and depositing it and 
himself together at CorabeFs feet. 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


71 


When Paul came back slowly to consciousness on the 
following Saturday, his first words were : ‘‘Who in the 
hell scared that horse ? Where’s my saddle ?” 

From the above the reader can obtain only a faint idea 
of Laura’s wonderful pyrotechnical imagination. She 
need not write any more hooks. The world will take 
what she has wrtten already and call it square. How on 
earth Laura ever found a publisher fool enough to print 
such rot is more than I can comprehend. 

^ ^ 

TRUTH HURTS WORSE THAN FICTION. 


On December 28th last, I received the following let- 
ter. It is very unpleasant sometimes to tell the truth, 
especially when you know it brings pain to some other 
human being. Particularly is it unpleasant to always 
write the truth, but I promised the public when I 
started the Harpoon’ I would print the truth so far as 
I was able to see it, therefore I can not afiord to fly the 
track this early in the game. Here is the letter, dated 
San Antonio, Texas: 

Mr. K. Lamity Bonner, Editor Harpoon. 

Dear Sir : I see you answer questions to correspond- 
ents, so I desire very much to have your advice. This 
is my trouble. I am engaged to be married soon to 

Mr. James . I am 18 years old, he is 25. My 

parents are reasonably wealthy, that is, they have always 
given me everything I wanted, and I love them dearly. 


72 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


They are bitterly opposed to me marrying Mr. , 

simply because he has been very wild, and is accused of 
being a ^^sport’^ and a drinking man. I love him with 
all my heart, and he has sworn to me that the day we 
are wed he will never touch liquor again. He has no 
property now, but is a good business man when he has 
employment. I am very unhappy when away from him, 
and he is devoted to me, and vows to love and be true 
to me forever. If we marry, we must run away, for my 
father is a very stern man, and when angry is danger- 
ous, and I know would never forgive me. Now, my 
dear sir, please tell me what to do, and tell me seriously, 
and do not answer lightly, but advise me just as you 
would your own sister. With best wishes, and great im- 
patience to read your answer, I am 

Very truly yours, 

Lillian . 

My Dear Miss Lillian : Without being 

egotistical in the least, I am positive I could answer 
your question correctly in three minutes with my hands 
tied behind me. In order to make you fully understand 
the matter, I will have to be very frank with you, Lil- 
lian, and while I am almost certain you will rip this 
paper from end to end on reading my answer, yet I am 
determined to do my duty in the matter — as the bug 
remarked when he fell in the butter. 

As a starter, Lillian, what can you promise yourself 
when you are Jimmie’s wife ? Let’s figure up the trade, 
and see what’s in it. We’ll first see what sacrifices you 
make, and what you receive in return, then we’ll figure 
on Jimmie. 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


73 


To begin with, you put yourself, body and soul, into 
the care and keeping of a man, and it will be your duty 
to ^^love, honor and obey him as long as you both live/^ 
You give up your home, and forsake father and mother 
who have loved and cared for your every whim for 
eighteen years. You assume obligations and duties of 
which you never dream, and cares and worries that 
heretofore have never cast their shadows across your 
pathway. A few short days of love-making, billing and 
cooing, and before you know it the plain question of 
provisions will present itself. 

In the gush and confidence of your sweet young girl- 
hood, you fancy that with Jimmie by your side you 
could live on love alone. It wonT work, Lillian. Love 
is all right for a brief period, but a flat failure as a 
steady diet. A sack of meal and a side of bacon will 
keep you alive longer than all the love on earth. 

To summarize, you give up all the associations and 
pleasures of your youth, father, mother and a comfort- 
able home, and in return you get — Jimmie. In his case 
he ‘^promises^^ to give up a lot of vicious habits, and in 
return he secures a young, loving, pure, innocent wife. 
If you find out you have made a bad trade you can not 
back out. If Jimmie decides he is the loser, grows weary 
of your love, and sighs for other feminine worlds to 
conquer, he can simply put on his hat and walk off, and 
that settles it. 

Yow, my dear girl, I know you are roaring mad by 
this time, but you asked me for the truth, and I’ll tell it 
if it takes the hair off. You tell Jimmie that you want 
to have a talk with him, and when he comes, you say to 


74 : 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


him that you want him to give you some idea of how 
you are going to live after you are married. Say to 
him in substance as fol^lows : 

^^Jim, old socks, I have sent for you on business. We 
have been having a real nice time love-making, but as 
we will soon be married I want us to lay our plans for 
the future. Let’s leave love clean out of the business 
for the time and come down to a plain meat and bread 
basis. Of course, we will be bound to live somewhere, 
and it will require money. How much will you have 
after paying the preacher? (Silence by Jimmie.) How 
on earth are you going to pay board for us both with- 
out money or even a salary? (More silence.) Then, 
Jimmie, how do I know but what you will keep on drink- 
ing and gambling? If you were to do so, how could I 
help myself ? In fact, Jimmie, don’t you think we had 
better wait a few years and see if you can’t go to work, 
stop your devilment, earn enough money to at least pay 
board a month, and show me that you mean business? 
(Considerable more silence by Jimmie.) I love you 
well enough to wait until you are able to keep a wife. 
In fact, I love you too well to become a burden on your 
hands. How, if you are sincere and honest in your pro- 
testations, get a move on yourself, and when you have 
shown yourself a man, that will be ample time to come 
find get your wife. I ain’t going nowhere, Jimmie, and 
don’t intend to, unless you are willing to do the reform 
act before marriage. You say, as your wife, I could re- 
form you. While I’d like to see you brace up and be a 
man, I’m not seeking a situation as governess or guard- 
ian. (Jimmie will begin reaching for his hat.) How, 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


76 


light out, Jimmie, and let me see what sort of stuff 
you^re made of, and when you are all right, you will find 
your girl waiting for you.^^ 

Jimmie will leave hastily no doubt, but if there is 
anything good in him^ it would come to the surface. If 
he still continues his reckless life, you will always thank 
your stars that you did not marry him. In conclusion, 
Lillian, I will say that if the reputation of being a 
^^sport” and a ^^drunkard” are all the gifts or virtues a 
man can place at the feet of his intended bride, the 
woman must be exceedingly brave or very anxious for a 
husband if she accepted the old turkey buzzard as a life- 
partner. Yours truly, 

K. Lamity Bonner. 

^ ^ 

ALWAYS TELL THE TRUTH. 


Last week I received the following letter from a lady 
subscriber who lives in Houston, Texas: 

Lamity Bonner, 

^^Dear Sir : I have been reading your paper for over 
six months, and I see that you are an anti-prohibition- 
ist. In fact, so far as I know, the Harpoon is the only 
out-and-out anti-prohibition paper in Texas. Some 
of the rest may have anti tendencies, but yours is always 
outspoken on the subject. A short time ago I met a 
gentleman friend of yours who says, however, that he 
knows you intimately, and is positive that in your heart 
you are a prohibitionist. Now, I want to ask you to tell 


76 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


me, ‘Where do you really stand on the question of dram 
drinking T 

“Sincerely yours, 

“Mbs. 

My Dear Mrs. M : I don’t take a stand on 

dram drinking very often, but when I do, it is in front 
of the counter, and I look the enemy straight in the 
face. It’s very uncomfortable sometimes to tell the hon- 
est truth, but I always do so, when you pin me right 
down. 

^ ^ ^ 

A LIMITLESS FIELD FOR THE ETHNOLO- 
GISTS* 


The best vantage ground on earth from which to study 
ethnology is that occupied by the newspaper solicitor. 
There you scare up the genus homo from his native 
jungle, and behold him in all his pristine purity. To 
enumerate the different characters that are met by a 
newspaper canvasser would be to name them one by one, 
for no two are precisely alike. Every locality has at 
least one man, however, belonging to each class of living 
curiosities, and it takes a newspaper solicitor to beat the 
bush and set them going. 

For instance, you meet the old Ungka-Puti who “Jest 
raaly takes more papers than he kin read.” You find 
these old single-handed liars in groups, who will look 
you squarely in the face and swear that they are simply 
fiooded with newspapers and magazines, when, in fact, 
they take none. While claiming to be constant readers 


s 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


77 


of numerous papers, the narration of the assassination 
of President Lincoln would be news to them. 

Many years ago I was traveling representative of one 
of the large Texas daily papers, and dropped off the 
train at the flourishing town of Corsicana, Texas. I 
strolled around the town, meeting and conversing with 
all classes of humanity, from thorough-bred, high-toned 
gentlemen, such as Captain Garrity, clear on down the 
line. 

Early in the day I happened in front of a saloon just 
as an old gentleman emerged from the door, wiped his 
mouth on his coat sleeve and seated himself on an 
empty beer keg. I at once approached him and, seating 
myself on another relic of past hilarity, began in a con- 
fldential tone to make known my plans, my schemes, 
hopes, and fears, winding up with' an abbreviated list of 
private sorrows. 

The old gusher seemed considerably sympathetic and 
much interested. Finally when I decided that he was 
on my string, I grew more confidential and proposed 
to send him ^The only first-class democratic newspaper 
west of the Mississippi river for only one dollar per 
year.^^ 

He at once wanted to know if we sent it on time or 
on credit. In a kind and gentle manner I explained 
to him that the iniquitous tariff legislation forced upon 
the country by the Eepublican party added to the sud- 
den and unexpected outbreaks both by the Sioux Indians 
and Carrie Nation, supplemented by the rise in baking 
powders and the fall in meteors, made it imperative that 
I secure the money in advance. My ancient and antique 


78 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


Wanderoo at once began to make excuses for not sub- 
scribing. I knew that I would never get a cent of that 
old animal’s money. Indeed, I doubted if he had a 
cent — and furthermore, I was not positive whether he 
could read the paper even if he received it, but having 
plenty of time, I determined to worry him a link or 
two, and to incidentally give him a touch of high-life. 
I at once got my diamond drill machinery in operation, 
and began to bore deep and strong. My friend tried to 
leave me, but I hung on. I don’t believe I ever saw 
a man in such complete misery. He told me not less 
than 875 separate and distinct lies inside of half an 
hour. 

He stated positively that he was taking more papers 
than he could read — piles of ’em — stacks of ’em — all 
sorts of ’em — in fact, furnished his neighborhood for ten 
miles around with news of this great throbbing, pulsat- 
ing globe — the addition of even one more periodical 
would only increase his misery. 

I begged him as a favor to give me a list of the papers 
he was taking, and here was where he ran his skiff on 
the rocks. He declared positively that he could not re- 
member half of the newspapers and magazines, but as 
I pleaded for even a partial list, he added another wad 
of fresh tobacco to the supply already in his mouth, and 
as the perspiration streamed down his face, he said that 
he ^^Couldn’t rickerlect all of ’em, but there was the 
Noo York Avalanche, printed in Memphis; the Globe- 
Democrat, of Little Kock; the Picayune, of San Fran- 
cisco; the Dallas News of Houston, and a power of other 
fine papers.” 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


79 


I told him these papers were all right as far as they 
went, but it was quality, not quantity that an up-to- 
date business man like he needed. Life was too short 
to mount by a spiral ladder, when an elevator was at 
hand. I remember that I could see traces of care and 
sorrow upon his face, caused, no doubt, by overreading, 
and as a friend, advised him to stop, or he would fill an 
early grave. I told him the trouble lay in the fact that 
he had to travel over too much territory to gather the 
intellectual food so necessary to his great mind, and 
then assured him in a low, soothing tone of voice that 
the great paper — of which I was an humble representa- 
tive — was exactly what he needed, with its condensed; 
form of each day^s events, arrayed in such simple form 
that even the leaders of the populistic party could not: 
err therein, but could instantly load up on information.. 

I held the old man captive until the sun ran high int 
the heavens, and when I finally grew sorry for him and 
turned him loose, he made a bee-line for his wagon and 
left town on the run, turning anxious glances over his 
shoulder for fear I was on his trail. As a matter of 
fact, that old mud-splitter had a wife and several grown 
children, as I afterwards learned, and took no papers 
at all, not even his own county paper. And, for fear I 
will forget it, I will incidentally remark that whenever 
a man becomes so poor he can not afford to pay $1 per 
year for his own county paper, it is time for him to 
either move or qualify as a professional juror. 

I have always had some respect for a man who would 
stand up and tell his home editor that he ^^didnT want 
the home paper/’ but for an able-bodied man to assert 


80 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


that he is ^Too poor” to spend eight and one-third cents 
per month for the county paper, induces me to classify 
him as anything else save a gentleman. An ordinary 
free nigger can beat that all hollow, and pay two or 
three crap fines to boot during the year. 

Another class is the man who reads something in the 
paper he don’t like, and at once ^^stops his paper.” Of 
all natural born, thoroughbred, eighteen karat, two- 
legged marmozets on earth, this sort should stand at 
the head of the class. As an example, let’s see what 
would become of a man who was fool enough not to 
have anything to do with things that failed to please 
him in toto. 

As a starter, he would quit his wife and children in- 
side of a year. He would not drink water, because it 
all contains impurities. He would not have a neighbor, 
because he sometimes differed with him. He would 
not eat hash, because it frequently has hairs in it; nor 
drink whisky, because it has snakes in it. He would 
never ride on a train, because sometimes they are behind 
time, and he would try to put out the sun, because it 
made the air too hot in summer. He would pass up 
eggs on account of the shells, and refuse to wear shoes, 
because they sometimes hurt his feet. In fact, he would 
become a modem Pariah, and subsequently develop into 
an opaque ball of invisible nebula, fioating in a non- 
existent ocean of intangible henceness. 

Then you often run up on the wealthy old skinfiint, 
who brazenly assures you that he is ^^too poor to pay 
out money for papers.” He seems to be in a chronic 
stage of apprehension lest he may starve to death, and 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


81 


when I meet such a character, I always regret that our 
criminal statutes prevent me from forestalling any such 
probable fate. 

You next collide with the smart man who has forgot- 
ten more in the last ten minutes than Solomon ever 
knew. In fact, a few moments’ conversation with him 
would convince you that he had slipped a cog and for- 
gotten all he ever knew. He is always full of chestnuts 
which he insists on dividing with you, and you can also 
detect a decided flavor of prunes in his immediate 
vicinity. 

Then comes the man who imagines every newspaper 
man or newspaper solicitor is a beggar, and hence does 
not deserve courteous treatment. You accost him as a 
gentleman, and you at once realize your mistake. He 
is nearer a full grown donkey than a 'genteel man. 

The above are only a few selections of the many kinds 
of senseless creatures the newspaper man encounters on 
his errands of mercy, still life is not altogether unpleas- 
ant, and many happy hours come to the shovers of the 
pencil. 

^ ^ ^ 

THE HISTORY OF HETTIE. 


[Being a true history in two chapters of how the author first 
fell in love, and the heartless conduct of the young girl. This 
is Chapter One] 

DEDICATION. 

(Among writers of note, one of which I am whom, it 
is customary to dedicate their work to some one or other. 
When you dedicate a book to another person, this 


82 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


virtually releases the dedicator from all responsibility 
should any unpleasant circumstances immediately fol- 
low the publication, and puts the dedicatee in for the 
consequences. I therefore dedicate this literary bonbon 
to Henry Kane, the well-known contractor and builder 
of Beaumont, Texas. — The Author Himself.) 


chapter I. 

As a rule a person is liable to forget remarkable 
events in his own life, but I make the prediction there 
is not a sane man living today who does not remember 
the first time he fell in love. Sages and poets have 
earnestly endeavored to describe the sensation, but all in 
vain. While the symptoms may differ in individual 
cases, the disease is the same. 

When Adam caught the first glimpse of Eve’s bon- 
nie face peeping shyly at him from behind a cluster of 
palms, he experienced the same sensation as the youth 
of today when he first meets the girl he loves. There is 
a thrill, an electric shock, strong though pleasant, a 
quickening of the pulses which sends the young blood 
dancing like a Dervish through every vein, and in- 
stantly the boy becomes a man and in his own estima- 
tion is about the best one that ever crushed gravel. 

Men do not always marry the first girl with whom 
they fall in love. As a rule this is either the fault of 
the girl or the la^w which prohibits the marriage of 
minors. These initial spasms frequently occur at an 
early age, and although the parties may never be more 
than passing acquaintances, I can state positively that 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


83 


in the man’s heart there is always reserved a sacred 
niche in which the image of his first love remains for- 
ever. She may have treated him harshly, and bounced 
him like a rubber ball, but he can never dislike or for- 
get her. 

Most people, after attaining years of maturity, are 
rather shy about their early love scrapes and do not 
like to mention them. For my part, I glory in them, 
and, like an old veteran, I delight in showing my scars, 
even if I did get the worst of the battle. 

I shall never forget the first time I fell in love, nor 
the heartless treatment I suffered at the hands of that 
angel in short dresses. Naturally, since that time, the 
attacks have been legion, and, with one exception, I lost 
out, but for acuteness of agony and galvanized grief, 
my first defeat heads the list. 

There is no harm left in a man when he first falls 
in love. He steps around as lively as a shanghai roost- 
er in a pile of hot ashes, and whistles and sings until 
the neighbors dream of murders and midnight assassi- 
nations with the aforesaid young man in the role of 
corpse. He indulges in lonely walks, and carves his 
darling’s name on every tree and stump. He watches 
the moon like a Southern man his colored renter, and 
composes beautiful verses of original poetry, which he 
vainly endeavors to have printed in the local'paper. 

Cupid is a sly little rascal, and never fails to get in 
his work on each individual, and I shall never forget 
the lovely evening when that merciless archer in decol- 


84 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


lete wings crept np behind me, and, letting fly an arrow, 
struck me just where my home-knit suspenders crossed 
the 47th degree of north latitude. 

It was a beautiful evening in May, 1850. Most love 
story writers start the game in May, but in my case it 
is a fact. I will add, however, that the season cuts no 
cucumbers so far as love is concerned, for a man can fall 
in love just as deeply with the thermometer twenty be- 
low zero as he can when the butterflies are struggling in 
the picnic butter. 

On this particular evening I took a stroll from my 
father’s house across the beautiful flower-covered prai- 
ries. I remember distinctly that I did not especially de- 
sire to stroll, so my father kindly went with me part of 
the way. After accompanying me about two hundred 
yards, which was covered in exactly nine and one-quarter 
seconds, my father stopped, wiped the perspiration from 
his forehead, and remarked in a high key, as he flour- 
ished a long Texas cow whip: 

You’d better run, you lazy splinter-legged rascal. 
If I could catch you, I’d larrup you like sixty. Go on 
now and drive up them cows, or I’ll skin you all over — 
hear me?” 

* * * * * * * Hs ^ 

I strolled on. As my dear freckled-faced reader has 
doubtless surmised, I was not in a very poetic frame of 
mind. I felt more like swearing, but being only four- 
teen years old and possessing no educational advantages 
such as is now enjoyed by the youths of Texas, my 
vocabulary of cuss words was naturally small, being 
limited to the very plainest and simplest adjectives, in- 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


85 


terspersed with repeated wishes that every old long- 
horned cow in Williamson county were grazing in the 
valley where Sam Jones declares a mosquito-bar shirt 
is too thick for winter use. 

Thus you see I was unable to fully grasp the subject 
or do it Justice, but I made the best talk I could under 
the circumstances, walking slowly, but keeping a sharp 
lookout, lest my father might try to take a near cut and 
near cut me in two with that fifteen-foot cow whip. 
Finding the cows, I repeated the entire program for 
their benefit, adding a stone at each word by way of 
emphasis and punctuation. As I turned abruptly 
around a high mound, I came face to face with a young 
girl,. I stopped suddenly^ seized a half-uttered swear 
word between my lips and maimed it for life. 

She was what a connoisseur in female loveliness would 
have pronounced exceedingly homely, though when my 
eyes rested upon her octangular form and rectangular 
face, I considered her the square-baled quintessence of 
female beauty. 

^^The sun had rested in her hair. 

And left his golden radiance there/’ 

At the time I did not notice it, but since years have 
passed and I have partially recovered my reason, I am 
constrained to admit that in this particular case the 
sun must have rested quite a while in order to leave so 
much radiance. In fact, she would have looked better 
with more hair and less radiance. 

I was tall and slender as a dude’s walking cane. She 
was neither. We were built on entirely different plans 


86 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


and specifications. About the only way you could tell 
positively whether she was lying down, sitting down or 
standing up was to notice the direction of the stripes 
in her calico frock. We passed and neither spoke. She 
peeped coyly out from beneath her deep sunbonnet, and 
I blushed behind my freckles. I was said to be the 
freckledest boy in that neighborhood, which naturally 
made me feel vain and haughty. For many years my 
freckles were democratic, but later on grew populistic, 
and fused, forming one solid freckle which fit my face 
precisely. 

Just as I met the girl was when Cupid got in his 
work. I was in love and tripped gayly along, forget- 
ting the stonebruises on my heel and the fear of meet- 
ing my father. The old long-horned cows that I had 
pelted with rocks until they dodged from their own 
tails, seemed transformed into a team of beautiful steeds 
that was carrying me swiftly to my lady love. That 
evening when I went forth to divide milk with the other 
calves, the patter of the milk in the tin pail sounded as 
sweet as ^olian music wafted on Southern breezes to 
the ears of sleeping fairies. 

I tried to fondle a cow, hut being unaccustomed to 
such treatment, she dealt me a vicious, double-back-ac- 
tion kick which sprawled me out under a bucket of fresh 
laid milk. I chuckled a yearling under the chin, and 
he promptly ran over me, but I did not lose my temper, 
being wholly under the mesmeric infiuence of my first 
dose of love. 

Next morning was Sunday, and I took special pains in 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


87 


the arrangement of my toilet, and combed kinks out of 
my hair that had been there for weeks. My friend, Dick 
Eay, had visited me on the previous evening, and gave 
me a partial history of the young girl. She was a new- 
comer, just out from the peanut belt of Georgia, and 
the daughter of old man Ben Blivens. Ben had pre- 
ceded his family to Texas by three or four years, and 
lived near my father’s ranch. It was rumored that 
some trivial trouble regarding the ownership of hogs 
had hastened his departure from Georgia, but being 
young, I never got the straight of it. On reaching 
Texas he tried vigorously to marry and raise a family, 
failing in which he sent back to Georgia and brought 
out his old one. He was a leading man in Texas society, 
however, the mystery of his former history only adding 
to his prominence in social circles. At that early period 
the leaders of Texas society were careful to receive all 
applicants into the social arena, because they might 
prove to be a count in disguise, or, if refused, might steal 
a horse and scoot for Mexico. Old man Blivens proved 
to be no count, but I loved his daughter with all the hot 
tamale fervor of my Southern nature. 

Dick Eay said she would attend the meeting of our 
Band of Hope next day, of which I was secretary, and 
I therefore donned my new pantaloons, which had been 
rebuilt from a pair of father’s old ones, and my round- 
about jeans jacket, which was a beauty, barring its 
brevity.. In remodeling the trousers my tailor had not 
expended much time or pains, merely cutting off the 
frazzled ends and taking a two-inch hem on them. As 
my father measured forty-two inches around the waist. 


88 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


while I could have easily crawled through a joint of 
stovepipe, I found a pair of strong home-knit suspen- 
ders absolutely necessary for comfort and safety. To 
make assurance doubly sure, I crossed them fore and 
aft and frequently pinned some modest wild flower at 
the front crossing. 

My Sunday shirt was made of the best quality of 
striped hickory, with a white domestic front porch, so 
to speak, and cuffs cut plain to match. With the addi- 
tion of a turkey-red cravat, nay attire was neat without 
being particularly flashy. While it is a fact that my 
pantaloons were exceedingly baggy, and contained al- 
most as much unoccupied territory as Oklahoma prior 
to its opening up to actual settlers, I nevertheless con- 
sidered myself elegantly attired, and would have felt no 
hesitancy in accepting an invitation to a Governor’s re- 
ception or a meeting of the diplomatic ambassadors of 
all nations. The only ornaments I wore on this par- 
ticular day were a small bunch of hollyhocks, sweetwil- 
liams and bluebonnets (or buffalo clover) pinned at the 
front intersection of my blue suspenders, and a plain 
gutta percha ring on my right third Anger. 

Thus arrayed, I took my secretary’s book under my 
arm and started to the Band of Hope meeting. Arriv- 
ing at the school house, I walked proudly up the aisle, 
realizing that I was the observed of all observers. I sat 
down by Dick, who informed me in a stage whisper: 
^^She’s here and has made applercashun to jine.” 

At the same time he punched me in the ribs, and my 
heart leaped gladly when, seated on the opposite side of 
the house, I saw my fair young love. She occupied 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


89 


three-fourths of a seat originally intended to accommo- 
date six people. Her application for membership was 
signed ^‘Hettie Blivens,” though a postscript stated that 
her full name was “Hettierogeneous B. Blivens/^ and 
Dick said he ^^guessed the B. stood for Elizabeth.’^ 


CHAPTER II. 

[The plot thickens. — The delayed proposal and prompt re- 
fusal. — Great gobs of grief. — Pate of the false maiden. This 
is Chapter Two, and ends the story.] 

The initiation into a Band of Hope is an impressive 
ordeal. While it may not rank with the Masons, Odd 
Fellows^ Elks, or Hardshell Baptist church, it stands 
neck and neck with the Montezumas, Haymakers, and 
IJjiji lodges. The only drawback in the Band of Hope 
is the difficulty the members have in keeping the pledge. 
The obligations are that you “will not drink any spirit- 
uous or malt liquors, wine or cider,^^ and that you “will 
not curse, swear or use tobacco in any form.^^ 

How, they may appear very simple obligations, but 
when you tackle them you will find that you have gone 
rabbit hunting and jumped a panther. After a full in- 
vestigation, and numerous experiments, I am convinced 
that the only person who could make a consistent mem- 
ber of a Band of Hope would be a deaf mute with a 
perpetual case of lockjaw. 

At each meeting of our Band of Hope, the president 
used to propound the following question: “Has any 
member of this Band of Hope violated the pledge since 
last meeting? If so, he, she or it will please arise and 
he reinstated.^’ 


90 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


At first each member would turn and look inquir- 
ingly at his neighbor; then everybody would rise and 
be reinstated, after which the secretary would take the 
chair and reinstate the president. In this manner we 
increased in number and never lost a member. 

After the preliminary routine of business, the time 
arrived for the initiation of Miss Hettierogeneous B. 
Blivens into our juvenile and honorable order. She 
stood the test well, considering her size and age. In 
fact, outside of love affairs, she was on the square. Un- 
like other orders, there was no goat-riding in our Band 
of Hope. The goat never lived that could have carried 
Miss Blivens ten feet without looking like a steam road 
roller had run over him. 

In answer to interrogatories fired at her by our Grand 
Questioner, we learned that she was from, or near, Car- 
tersville, Georgia — had been in Texas two weeks — 
wanted to go back to Georgia — was fourteen years old — 
had gray eyes and auburn hair — had shedded her colt’s 
teeth — ^weighed one hundred and ninety pounds — ^had 
never chewed tobacco — ^had tried snuff once, but it burnt 
her mouth and made her real sick at the stomach — 
never swore in her life — ^had a. brother eighteen years 
old, who did the swearing for the family during her 
father’s absence, and frequently went over to help the 
neighbors — ^his name was Blessed Blivens, and he was 
going to join the Band of Hope — ^had had the measles, 
but didn’t know how many ; probably a thousand — 
didn’t have any idea who struck Billy Patterson; in 
fact, never knew before that he had been struck, but 
more than likely her brother Blessed did it; he was al- 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


91 


ways in a row with somebody — promised to attend meet- 
ings regularly, and never divulge the pass word, sign or 
grip, not even to a member. 

She was unanimously elected, and as secretary, it was 
my duty to whisper the pass word, which was ^^Barbara 
Allen,” in the candidate’s off ear, give her the grand 
hailing sign, and the cable grip. When I took her fair, 
fat hand in mine, in order to explain the grip, it took 
me so long the president proposed that ‘The meeting 
stands adjourned until the secretary turns loose.” 

After singing three verses of “Hark from the Tomb,” 
the ceremony was over, and the meeting adjourned, and 
I got Dick to introduce me to Miss Blivens. At that 
period (which fact can be proven by any person of my 
age) it was customary to make a very elaborate bow 
when being presented to a lady, and to shake hands 
with her until she got enough and tore loose. In mak- 
ing the bow, the bower should stand about four feet 
from the bowee, with the left heel placed in the hollow 
of the right foot, the feet being at right angles. At the 
proper moment, when the big show came off, the bower 
drew his right foot straight back something after the 
fashion of a hungry hen after a deep worm, at the same 
time bending his body at the waist only until he as- 
sumed the shape of a half-opened pocket knife. On this 
particular occasion, I not only slightly overdid the thing, 
but tore off two big black suspender buttons in the effort. 
As one was in front and one behind, no serious trouble 
arose, though had they both been from the same side, 
there is no telling what might have happened. In speak- 
ing of the incident later on, Dick said that when I drew 


92 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


back my bare foot to make the bow, that my toe nails 
‘^made as mnch fus® on the floor as a lizard runnin^ 
through a pile of dry leaves.’^ 

I walked home with Miss Hettie, which was only three 
miles from the schoolhouse where we held our Band of 
Hope meetings, and my fate was sealed. I tripped 
lightly along by her side through the grass and wild 
flowers, watching her pretty bare toes peeping in and 
out beneath her handsome dress, and her breathing, 
which resembled that of a motorcycle, was music to my 
enraptured ears. Noticing that one dear little toe was 
wrapped in a piece of red calico and tied with a blue 
string, I asked her if she had hurt it on a stump, and 
she said no, that her Brother Blessed had mashed it 
with a hammer just to tease her. That was about the 
extent of our conversation on that occasion. 

From that time on I was Hettie’s abject slave. I 
loved the young girl with all the concentrated ardor of 
my gushing boyhood ; but, alas ! I never dreamed that 
beneath that portly bosom there beat a heart as false 
as the election returns in a Republican precinct. 

Years rolled on and we grew to be man and woman. 
I was twenty-one and Hettie was a close second. I had 
not grown any except in height, while Miss Blivens had 
fairly spread herself. I was flve feet eleven and a half 
inches, and weighed one hundred and five pounds. Het- 
tie was four feet eight inches, and tipped the cotton 
scales at two hundred and forty-six pounds. 

During all these years I had never mustered up the 
courage to breathe one word of love, except to the pale. 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


93 


pale moon, and other inanimate things. It is true that 
we had often sat side by side on the same mossy bank 
with clasped hands, gazing fondly into each other^s eyes 
with all the artless confidence of a pair of new calves, 
and once I was bold enough to press a kiss upon her 
ripe, red lips and hug the side next to me. No man 
on earth could have hugged Miss Blivens all around at 
one hug. It was a physical impossibility. Of course, I 
realized the enormous disparity in our size, and appre- 
ciated the sacrifice she would make in marrying me, but 
I determined to make up in devotion what I lacked in 
weight. 

For two whole weeks I had practiced a speech to de- 
liver to Hettie, accompanied by an offer of my heart 
and hand. My place of rehearsal was down back of the 
orchard in a dense patch of sorghum cane, and in order 
to have everything as natural as possible, I rolled a mo- 
lasses barrel down there to represent the girl, and into 
the bung hole of this empty barrel I poured the over- 
flowing measure of my first love. 

My speech, upon which depended the future happi- 
ness of two young hearts, had been memorized from an 
old ''Love-letter Writer,'' which belonged to my sister. 
While it was not strictly applicable to the case, I 
thought it w'ould answer for a starter. It ran thus: 

''My First and Only Love: 

"I seize this opportunity of informing you that I am 
well, and trust you are the same. Darling, the days 
drag slowly by when we are apart. I miss your little 
footsteps and the music of your voice. From every 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


9i 

flower I see your bonnie face peeping forth at me, and 
in my dreams your fairy form is ever present. When 
are you coming to my arms, my dearest love ? Tell me 
truly when to Qxpect you. Dear one, let your answer be 
soon. Believe me, fairest, always your 

(Of course, the name in the book was ^^Charlie,^^ but 
I changed it to my own.) 

I got the speech down fine, even to the gestures which 
I deemed appropriate, so one Sunday morning I dressed 
with extra care and went over to get the returns from 
the Blivens box and see whether or not I had been 
elected. 

I found Hettie in the cow-pen milking. In this work 
she had the advantage over most women. Instead of 
tying off the calf, she simply stuck one thumb and fore- 
finger in its nostrils, yanked it off' and got between it 
and the cow. Not being able to see its mother the calf 
naturally decided the cow had been turned out to grass, 
so after gazing blankly around for a few minutes, 
quietly gave up all efforts for a division of the milk. 

After completing her work she went to the house, 
and soon reappeared arrayed in a handsome dress of 
some fluffy stuff that had two broad, pink stripes to 
every fluff. We walked to the spring and sat down on 
a big moss-covered stone. After a painful silence, I 
said: 

‘‘Miss Hettie, I have something to say to you.” 

“Turn it loose, Kay,” she replied. 

Dropping gracefully upon one knee, I delivered what 


K. Lamity's Texas Tales. 


95 


might be termed my tobaecolariat address in love. When 
I finished, she said: 

^^Well, that takes beef, hide and all. I saw that 
same thing in yonr sister’s 'Love-letter Writer’ not long 
ago. But since you have done your best, I will be hon- 
est with you, Kay, and tell you that I can never be 
thine.” 

I heard my circulation stop, and the heartless maiden 
continued : 

“You ought to know, Kay, that I can never be your 
wife. Why, my dear boy, you would never make a 
breakfast spell for me. You are good enough, what 
there is of you, and an abundance of you such as it is, 
but you and I were never intended for each other. If 
•we were, nature evidently lost the original plans and 
specifications. It grieves me, Kay, to say farewell, but 
I can not do otherwise. I’ll be a sister to you — ^two or 
three of them if you wish — but nothing more. Go out 
in the world and fight its battles bravely, and I am sure 
you will find some worthy girl more adapted to your 
style of beauty. Perhaps in years to come I may see 
written in golden letters upon some towering spire: 
'This lightning rod was put up by K. Lamity Bonner, 
Agent.’ ” 

4c 4! * * * * * * * 

I arose from the ground with a dull stifiing pain in 
my breast, and staggered toward home. My heart was 
simply benumbed with an overdose of woe. I crept into 
bed that night, and as I lay tossing upon my pillow, the 
soft moonlight came in through the open window, bath- 


96 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


ing the'room in mellowed rays, and soothing my fevered 
brain. 

Long, weary years have come, and then slided 
through the back door to return no more forever. I 
have grown older, and my hair mocks the Alpine sum- 
mits, yet even now in the silence of the midnights I 
sometimes suffer a relapse of that heart-crushing woe, 
notwithstanding I have sworn off from ever having any- 
thing to do with a woman over my size. 

Hettie finally married a man who weighed less than 
100 pounds, and has raised a family of eleven children, 
the youngest of whom is twice as big as its pa. 

^ ^ ^ 

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS. 


^‘Mr. K. L. B. 

“Dear Sir : When a young lady arrives at a certain 
age, she makes her debut in society. This very import- 
ant event is usually celebrated by a ball, or other social 
function, which is right and proper. The only incident 
connected with this time-honored custom to which I 
seriously object is an expression used by many news- 
papers. Recently a fair debutante / Alice Roose- 
velt, was presented to Washington society. In a dis- 
patch from Washington the correspondent said: 

“'Miss Roosevelt wore pure white, with white lace 
and trimmed with lilac orchids. Miss Roosevelt was the 
recipient of many floral pieces of beautiful design, sent 
to her in honor of her “coming out.’’ ’ 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


97 


“Now, I object to the expression ^coming out’ It 
sounds more like the dehut of a new race horse than the 
advent of a young girl into grown-up society. What is 
your opinion? 

“A Mother.’^ 

To be perfectly honest, madam (and God help the 
man who is), I think the words “coming out’^ happily 
appropriate. What does the expression mean? 

It signifies that the young girl has outgrown short 
dresses and has ceased to be a child who can remain in- 
doors all day and find pleasure and contentment in the 
society of a rag baby. 

It means that from that time forward she will be 
permitted to leave mamma and papa at home, and seek 
pleasure in the society of strangers. 

It means that henceforth she is a shining mark, set 
up in the matrimonial shooting gallery, the prize of the 
first brainless marksman who happens to make a lucky 
shot at the target of her affections. It means many 
restless days and nights for the devoted mother and 
doting father, whose lives are wrapped up in that little 
fairy in long dresises, whose bright eyes put to shame 
the electric lights in the happy home, and whose merry 
voice has made music to their souls for the past eight- 
een years. 

Years pass by, and some one carries away the price- 
less jewel. What is given in return? The greatest 
guerdon that could be bestowed upon the bereaved par- 
ents is the assurance of the future happiness of their 
child. Do they alwa5’s get it? 

Candor, that unpleasant thing, again compels me to 


98 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


say that the life of the young married woman is not 
universally guaranteed as far as happiness is concerned. 
The young man may have the best intentions, but in- 
tentions, unless fulfilled, amount to nothing. A cer- 
tain place, which modesty prevents me naming, is said 
to be paved with the very best intentions, and still the 
streets are practically impassible. No one cares to 
make a visit there, much less become a permanent resi- 
dent. 

While the expression of ^^coming out^^ does sound a 
trifie harsh, I fail to see how it could be improved, un- 
less one says ^fiosing out.” This would, in my opinion, 
be equally appropriate, and far from truthful, so far 
as the girls are concerned. 

A gentleman living in San Antonio writes : 

is YCTj difficult for a writer to tell what sort of 
an article will please an editor. I am a new man in the 
literary field, yet ^ often feel piqued when my best arti- 
cles are returned Vith thanks.^ Can you give me a few 
pointers as to how I can please that very incomprehensi- 
ble breed of people called -editors ? 

.” 

Yes, M I can give you a few pointers, and a 

whole litter of setters upon this subject. I expect the 
most pregnant cause of your disappointment is that you 
spend all your time in trying to please the editors, when, 
as a matter of fact, this should be avoided. You should 
strive to write something that will please the readers 
of the publication represented by the editor. Wlien he 
strikes it, he will know it, never fear. So far as he is 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


99 


concerned, he may consider your matter the purest bosh, 
yet it is his business to please his readers and not him- 
self. 

Another thing to remember in writing for any publi- 
cation, is to be certain that your article is original. Do 
not imagine, when you find a bright, crisp idea hidden 
away in some musty book or prehistoric and obscure 
journal, that it is a literary Maverick, and that the 
world has forgotten it was ever turned loose. The world 
does not forget such ideas, and as soon as your mark 
and brand appears on one, you are known to be a literary 
thief. 

When your article is finished, go over it carefully to 
see that every superfiuous sentence or word is stricken 
out. After this, you will frequently be astonished at 
its brevity. In fact, there will often remain nothing 
except the headlines. 

In writing for the public, no matter whether in news- 
papers or magazines, it frequently becomes a fad with 
new beginners to affect phonetic, or ^^Josh Billings^ 
style of spelling. If you have any respect for your read- 
ers, avoid that fatal error, for there is neither fun nor 
sense in it. After quite a lengthy career in newspaper 
work, I find that the average correspondent makes 
enough mistakes in spelling, unintentionally, to please 
the most enthusiastic devotee at the shrine of Billings. 

It you want to write something hun^orous, you must 
be natural. That is, do not try to overcook your meat. 
Gross exaggerations are never funny, and this fre- 
quently spoils an otherwise good article. In conclusion, 
I would suggest that if you want to become a writer 




100 K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 

whose work will be appreciated, avoid chestnuts, spell 
your level best, cut it short, be natural, and in these 
you will find a whole kennel of pointers. 

^ ^ ^ 

ROOSEVELT SIZED UP* 


(With a thousand apologies to McGufiey’s Third 
Reader.) 

^^How big is Mr. Roosevelt, Pa, 

That papers call him great ? 

Is he like some huge mastodon. 

With tusks a hundred weight? 

Is he so tall that he can stand 
Like some Colossus high. 

And spraddle both his legs apart. 

To let the coons go by ?” 

^^Oh no, my son, he isn’t big. 

And neither is he tall. 

It’s not his stature makes him great. 

But the greatness of his gall.” 

^ ^ 

JUST LIKE A WOMAN* 


One lifted her skirts with the greatest precision. 

And tripped through the mud on the tips of her toes, 
While the other one smiled in scornful derision 
At a large rectangular hole in her hose. 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


101 


WILL ATTEND THE CORONATION. 


[Written in 1902, juist prior to the crowning of Ed- 
ward Albert, King of England.] 

I was not at all surprised last Tuesday morning when 
I received a cablegram, which read as follows : 

^^Are you coming over to see me crowned? 

(Signed) Albert Edward, formerly of Wales.’^ 

I was not surprised, I repeat, from the fact that I 
have known Albert Edward for years, and there has 
never been one cross word between us. I at once sent 
him the following letter, and as we have nothing to con- 
ceal, I am perfectly willing that the world should read 
it: 

Dear Wales: 

^^Your message received, and I would have cabled you, 
but some time ago our dam broke, and our cable got 
lost in the shuffle. While it is true we have a street 
car cable in Austin, I was afraid to try a message over 
it. Judging by the way the cars are run under the pres- 
ent management, a cablegram sent you via the Austin 
Rapid Trausit Street Car Cable would drift into Lon- 
don some ten or fifteen days after Gabriel had finished 
his comet solo. By that time you would have forgotten 
that you ever had a crown. So I decided to write. 

'Tn the first place, I^m coming, if I have to walk. A 
whole lot of other Americans will make the trip, but 
I donT propose to mix up with ^em. I have been in- 


102 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


vited to join the Kooeevelt party, but declined with 
thanks. When I go off on a little jaunt like that, I 
never like to be bothered with women, until I get there. 

don’t believe Mr. Eoosevelt will go ; in fact, he has 
told me he would not. You see, Wales, he has a Con- 
gress on his hands, and it’s a job. It takes Mr. Eoose- 
velt all his time and more, too, to keep it under herd. 
I had rather try to corral a bunch of Texas steers in a 
burning cane brake than hold down an American Con- 
gress. It’s awful. 

note also what you said in your last letter, re- 
ceived a month ago, regarding my costume, in case I 
was on hand when your crown sheet was riveted. To be 
honest with you, I don’t think I will look well in knee 
pantaloons and a sword. I ain’t built on the knee pan- 
taloons model. As for a sword, I could do nothing with 
it in case of a rucus, which I suppose you anticipate, or 
you would not ask me to come armed. However, I have 
a pair of Colt’s 45-calibre single action six-shooters that 
I can work double, and you know, Wales, that I’ll stay 
with you in case there’s a row. I’ll bring them with 
me. 

^Tn your letter you say something about a ^good 
time, plenty of champagne,’ etc. How, to be honest, I 
don’t like champagne. I don’t suppose I’ve drank a 
dozen bottles in the last two weeks. There is something 
so evanescent, so transitory and so delightfully disap- 
pointing in champagne that I seldom call for it. In 
fact, you can get more solid comfort and quicker action 
out of a quart of ten-year-old Kentucky whisky than 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


103 


you can from a whole basket of your Irish potato cham- 
pagne. 

donT think I can spare the time to meet Prince 
Henry. We are holding our primaries unusually early 
this year, and if it had not been for the dry weather 
and the late crops of candidates we would have been 
through by now, and I could meet His Most Eoyal Beer- 
ness at Hew York. We are going to give him a hot 
time, however; not because he is a prince (for the woods 
are full of ’em over here), but because he represents a 
great nation of excellent people. 

^^The American people owe a deep debt to Germany 
(and also the barkeepers) because of the discovery of 
beer. Without this great product, hundreds and thou- 
sands of good, honest men right here in Texas would 
actually suffer for food, as its price practically puts it 
within the reach of all. When misfortunes overtake a 
man, and all crops fail, he can turn to beer like a sun- 
flower to the god of day, and always get more than he 
can carry. Hence our love for the Germans. 

^^Speaking of national likes and dislikes reminds me, 
Wales, of a lot of rot that is eternally being printed 
both in the IJnited States and in your country about the 
friendship that exists between the United States and 
England.’ Such bosh makes me weary. Of course, you 
and I personally are good friends. Ours is a friend- 
ship of long standing; a friendship which I trust may 
never be so broken as to require a brace ; but I am posi- 
tive that, so far as our nations are concerned, there is 
not a particle of real love existing between them. 

'^You have your English flunkies who come over here 


104 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


and attempt to out- American Americans. We know 
them, and smile at them. Then we have a large gang 
of flunkettes who go to England, and run their shirts 
off trying to exhibit their zeal for Johnnie Bull. Your 
people turn one eye-glass on them and grow sick at the 
stomach. When it comes to bed rock, Wales, the Eng- 
lish people and the Americans donT like each other one 
bit, and if an occasion should ever arise, you will find 
that the spirit of 1776 is about 250 proof and growing 
stronger as the years pass by. All this fol de rol about 
the coalition of England and America exists only in the 
muddled imaginations of a lot of clabber-headed space- 
stuffers, who could not tell the difference between com- 
plete compression and absolute expansion. Should the 
time ever come when large national interests are in- 
volved, our nations will fly at each other like a saloon 
bum at a free lunch. 

Wales, you don’t know how I would like to see you, 
and divide up ^’alf and ’alf,’ as in the days of yore. 
They tell me you are running the throne for all it’s 
worth, and attending to business. Good boy ! I always 
knew you’d make a king if your folks would ever give 
you a chance. It took ’em a long while to see it, but 
you finally outlived all opposition, and I, for one, was 
glad to see you make your royal flush. 

^Tn your letter you asked about the possibility of Mr. 
Roosevelt being continued as President. Well, you know 
I am a Democrat, and Mr. Roosevelt is a Republican, 
but, to be honest, his chances don’t seem to be very bad. 
I have never asked any favors from him, but I’m about 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


105 


the only man in Texas, Democrat or Eepnhlican, who 
hasnT. 

“Some time ago he invited a negro — Booker T. Wash- 
ington — ^to eat dinner with him, and Booker promptly 
accepted. I\e never known a negro to refuse an in- 
vitation to eat, so Booker’s acceptance seemed natural to 
me. We Southern people don’t believe in social equal- 
ity with the negro, so we went for Mr. Eoosevelt like a 
countryman trying to board a street car. 

“Mr. Roosevelt probably decided he had been hasty 
or exceedingly thoughtless in his action, and wisely held 
his tongue. The incident had almost passed from my 
mind, when recently I saw an alleged poem, credited to 
some one in Washington city, commenting on the Roose- 
velt-Washington dinner, in which the writer suggested 
that the proper sequence of the affair would be for 
Booker T. Washington’s son, a negro, to marry Presi- 
dent Roosevelt’s daughter, a beautiful and accomplished 
young girl, who has just become of age. 

“N’ow, Wales, I want to tell you that right there is 
where I backed up against Mr. Roosevelt, and proposed 
to take his part. I did not approve his action in dining 
with Booker T. Washington, but he is our President, 
the husband of a noble American woman, and the father 
of a pure American girl, and while I am practically an 
evangelist, and, of course, can not endorse murder, yet 
I tell you, Wales, that if I had the author of that abom- 
inable poem ’way up in the Colorado river mountains, 
above Austin, I don’t really believe he would ever re- 
turn. It was horrible, shocking, disgusting, nauseating, 
and Mr. Roosevelt’s worst enemy, if he was a gentleman. 


106 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


would rush to his aid against such a traducer of Amer- 
ican womanhood. 

^^Referring again to the crown piece, you may look 
for me over there on time. In this connection, I would 
suggest that if you haven’t placed an order for it, you 
might save money by having it built in 4:he United 
States. Some of your best people trade right along 
with us, and buy everything from a railroad locomotive 
to a wife, and outside of the wives, I’ve heard no com- 
plaint. I’m of the opinion that you could get a first- 
class crown here for half the money it would cost you 
in England. YojU see, there’s no market for ’em here, 
and hence they are cheap. I have never seen one worn 
in Texas, and if I had one I would not know how to 
buckle it on. 

“It’s getting late, Wales, so I will post this letter and 
go home. Please give my kindest regards to Mrs. Wales 
and all the little wails, and do me the favor to tell the 
dear lady to not put herself to the least bit of trouble 
on account of my coming. Just any old spare room in 
the palace, or a shake-down in the parlor is good enough 
for me. I know you’ll be crowded. If not entirely con- 
venient, I can take lunch at some hotel or restaurant, 
^though I must dine with you once or twice in order to 
meet the children. I am going to bring them a nice 
book entitled ^The Life of G-eorge Washington.’ It’s 
very interesting. 

“Well, good-bye, Wales, old boy. I want to be near 
you when the crown act comes off, and if any anar- 
chist or nihilist tries to make a rough house of it. I’ll 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


107 


attend to him while yon can tell one of yonr men to 
order a hearse. 

“Trusting we will have fine crowning weather, and 
hoping to see yon soon, I am, as ever, 

“Yonr friend, etc., 

“K. Lamity Bonner.” 

^ ^ ^ 

OLD TIME COUNTRY CHURCHES. 


Not long ago a friend asked me if I had ever lived 
in the country and attended country church meetings. 
I do not know why he desired the information, but I 
will herein describe a scene at a country church, and 
leave it to the reader whether I write from hearsay or 
actual observation. 

It is 9 :30 o^clock on a sunny summer morning. The 
scene is a big country church house, situated in a beau- 
tiful grove of trees. During the week the building is 
used for a school. Year by a spring of clear water bub- 
bles up through the roots of a huge old walnut tree. 

Several parties have already arrived. Soon the rattle 
of a wagon is heard, which quickly reaches the church. 
The old man and boys hop out over the wheels, smaller 
children fall over the tail board of the wagon, while 
three young girls in their teens, led by their portly, well 
fed ma, step one at a time on the end of the brake, 
smooth down their stiff fiour-starched calico frocks, so 
that no peeping Tom can catch a glimpse of home-knit 
snow-white hose, then climb down upon a chair, and 


108 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


thence to the ground, where the brushing and smooth- 
ing-down act is resumed. During their descent from 
the wagon, the old man stands by and assists the mother 
and daughters by catching their hands and giving them 
a hefty jerk. His gyrations, which are intended to be 
extremely polite, reminds one very much of the con- 
tortions of a road-runner trying to swallow a lizard that 
is two sizes larger than the bird^s throat. 

By way of parenthesis, I will digress here a few feet 
to comment on the old man’s politeness to his wife and 
daughters. The way he goes about it would convince 
anyone that he is a novice at the business. He reminds 
you of a young husband attempting to fondle his first- 
born. He tries to do the act gracefully, but fools no one. 
Mentally, the young husband longs for a nail-grab, and 
is frightened to death for fear the little wriggling wad 
of humanity will slip out of its wrappings and fall to 
the fioor. In lifting the mther and daughters from the 
wagon, the old farmer, by his awkwardness, shows very 
plainly that this extra politeness is practiced only at the 
church house on Sundays. During the week, the old 
lady and girls must hustle for themselves, and should 
one of them happen to get on top a martin box pole, she 
can either stay there or slide down so far as the old man 
is concerned. He would not worry himself about hunt- 
ing up a ladder. 

It does seem strange that people should keep most 
of their good habits and politenes for dress parade only. 
But, as the escaped convict said to the sheriff on being 
recaptured, ^^Let’s return to our business.” 

By this time several other wagons have arrived, and 


K. Lamity's Texas Tales. 


109 


emptied out their loads in precisely the same manner. 
All the men shake hands, and the women and girls (al- 
though their farms may join, and they are as social and 
friendly all the week as a hired girl) bow to each other 
as stiff as their skirts, and seem to be utterly at a loss 
as to what they should do with their hands. 

Here comes one good old brother mounted on a big, 
fat, lazy mule, carrying a baby on the pommel of his 
saddle, and a small, fat, barefooted boy behind. He 
bows and smiles at all the people present, sets the baby 
down on the ground, and then, in a moment of mental 
abstraction, forgets the boy behind, and swipes him off 
with his leg as he dismounts. The boy yells like a cal- 
liope — the mule shies off sideways — the old man swings 
on desperately for a few moments, but at this instant 
nine cur dogs make a Balaklava charge on the mule, 
and the animal goes off down the road carrying the old 
man along in kangaroo leaps. Finally, the old man^s 
foot strikes a sassafras root, he tears up a cloud of sand 
and dust, and falls to the ground as gracefully as a cow 
when roped by a cowboy. Then the mule strikes off 
down the road in a long gallop for home, with stirrups 
popping, while ever and anon he turns his head side- 
ways to see if the old man is on his trail. On regaining 
his feet the old man mutters something in an undertone 
that he never learned from the International Sunday 
School leaflets, walks slowly back, and spanks the boy 
for ^^skeerin’ the mule.” 

All kinds of animals and vehicles continue to arrive, 
until the whole neighborhood is there. The men form 
little groups under the trees and near the church door. 


110 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


exchanging hearty hand-shakes and greetings with each 
new arrival, never failing to enquire, ^^An^ how^s all 
your folks and they are invariably ^^Jest tolible well 
I thank ye, how^s yourn?” 

After a while the groups of men grow weary of stand- 
ing, and each one pulls out his pocket knife, picks up a 
bit of wood and, squatting down in a circle, begins to 
whittle and discuss the crops. Numerous funny jokes 
are told of the vintage of B. C., and such hearty laugh- 
ing is never heard in any other place. 

Finally J osh Griffin rides up on a handsome, fat horse,, 
and everybody rises up and says, “Thar’s Josh.” He 
dismounts, fastens his horse to a limb, carefully removes 
his gloves and puts them in his saddle pockets, takes out 
his handkerchief to wipe his perspiring fat face, at the 
same time surreptitiously consulting a little pocket mir- 
ror to see if his collar, cravat and hair are in shipshape,, 
and then ^ffiowdys” with everybody present. 

Josh Griffin is more than an ordinary man in the 
neighborhood. He crops with old man Johnson down 
on the river, and being a single man and a good worker,, 
always has a few spare dollars in his pocket. Josh is 
the singer of the neighborhood. He “took singin’ les- 
sons” for two terms from an itinerant singing master, 
and can raise any sized tune without outside help. Being 
unmarried, and “well to do,” he is naturally the envy 
of all the young men; and the young lady who receives 
his attentions at the “parties” is considered fortunate. 
“He could marry any of ’em at the drop of ’er hat, an’“ 
drop it hisself,” is the way old lady Watson puts it, and 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


Ill 


she is considered authority in the neighborhood in matri- 
monial affairs. 

Meeting never opens until Josh gets there. His voice, 
while still in a state of nature, is remarkably strong. 
When he sings he throws it all into the work, making up 
in strength what he lacks in sweetness of tone. While 
everyone delights to hear Josh sing, they all concede the 
point that he is especially great in “Babylon is Failin’,” 
“Walkin’ in the Light,” and “All Hail the Power.” 

Josh looks at his watch (that hasn’t rnn for a year), 
glances at the sun, says “Well, I reckon it about that 
time o’ day,” and walks into the house. Everybody rises, 
there is a snapping of knives, and all go inside. The 
preacher is sitting up on the little elevated platformi 
with glasses on, doing his level best to chase up a ser- 
mon by the aid of a concordance Bible. Josh walks up- 
in front, and, turning around, begins to look for hi& 
choir, and as fast as he catches each individual eye, he? 
snaps his thumb and forefinger at them and they come 
out one by one. 

First he “snaps” Miss Mollie Johnson, a very pretty, 
plump young girl, the belle of the neighborhood, and al- 
though he has been going through the same routine 
every Sunday for the last four or five years, she kinder 
hesitates, then suddenly rises and coihes modestly for- 
ward, her healthy pink cheeks, that look good enough to 
bite, suffused with a genuine 18-karat country blush. 

Miss Mollie is something of a singer herself, and 
when, at a social party, and coaxed a little, she can ren- 
der “Barbara Allen” in true pathetic style. When sing- 
ing to an audience at one of the social parties. Miss Mol- 


112 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


lie prefers to sit in a rocking chair, rock incessantly, and 
keep her pretty brown eyes constantly riveted on the 
floor. 

Josh next calls out Miss Bettie Bledsoe, a large, fair, 
fat girl, whose weight could better be guessed correctly 
than her age. She might be 17, or she might be 27, but 
everyone knows she would tip Fairbanks at not less than 
175 pounds. Miss Bettie is especially good ^^leadin’ the 
serpranner.” 

Next comes Miss Sallie Hasty, a tall, pale-faced girl 
who is owner and general manager of one of those once- 
heard-never-to-be-forgotten elevated country alto voices. 
She can sing a tune as high as the last fret on the E 
string of a mandolin. 

Josh next ^^snaps” out Tom Johnson, brother of Miss 
Mollie — both children of old Mrs. Johnson. Tom can’t 
sing a lick on earth, but he thinks he can, and as Josh 
thinks a great deal of Miss Mollie, he invites Tom to 
sing. This same game, you know, is often worked in 
other lines of business outside of singing classes. 

Next comes Billy McLaughlin, a big, fat, freckled- 
faced alligator-mouthed young man who couldn’t carry 
a tune up stairs in an elevator. His pa, however, is 
quite wealthy, and donated $300 towards building the 
church. So Billy gets in the choir. Billy’s voice is a 
happy blending between the wild, frantic screech of a 
locomotive when a cow is on the track and the low, 
plaintive wail of an ungreased wooden gin screw. 

The next candidate for melody is Charlie Kazzle. He 
is a small, consumptive-looking young man of about 18 
summers, whose skin, hair, and most of his eyes, are as 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


113 


white as milk. Charlie has the reputation, however, of 
operating the finest tenor voice in the entire community. 

At last every singer is on deck, with Josh at the bat. 
The house is suddenly quiet. You could hear a hat drop. 
Something is about to happen. Josh pulls a tuning- 
fork from his pocket, taps it against the pulpit, and 
holds it up to his great, fiat, red ear. Everything is as 
still as death. The audience knows that if Josh fails to 
get the correct “pitch,” the tune may be so high that no 
one except Miss Sallie Hasty, with her extension alto 
voice, will ever be able to hold on to it. 

After one expectant movement is over. Josh clears up 
his throat, looks steadily at a knot hole in the ceiling, 
and wails “do-o-o-sol-mi-do-o-o-o” in a descending scale 
that sounds like the prelude to a bagpipe tune. Then 
the choir repeats in unison “do-o-o-sol-mi-do-o-o-o” — 
with Tom Johnson and Billy McLaughlin about three 
tones flat — and the next moment the air is rent with the 
sound of “Babylon is Fallen” : 

“Hail the day so long expected. 

Hail the hour of sweet relief ; 

Zion’s walls are now erected. 

And her captains publish Peace. 

O’er the wide extended nations. 

Hear the trumpets loudly roar — 

^Babylon is fallen, is fallen, is fallen — 

Babylon is fallen, to rise no more.’ ” 

When several songs have been sung, the meeting 
starts, and Brother Raspberry soon begins to warm up 
on the subject of “It is I; be not afraid.” — Matt., 14:27. 


114 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


As he talks, he grows enthusiastic — ^tears run down his 
sunburned face — and when, at last, after carrying his au- 
dience through that wild, tempestuous night when Peter 
made such a failure of walking on water, the old man 
turns to the care and watchfulness of Christ over his 
people — of his love and suffering — and presently one of 
the good old sisters gets her cup of joy running over, 
and springing to her feet, she slaps her hands, cries 
^^Bless the Lord,” and then such another shouting you 
never heard. 

She keeps it up until the preacher nods at Josh, and 
in an instant he lights out full cry on ^^Gathering 
Home,” with the whole choir close behind. 

Oh, yes ; IVe lived in the country, and been to country 
meetings. I might also add that I have seen more of 
what I call pure old hand-made religion in a log school 
house, or under a brush arbor, than I ever saw beneath 
the dazzling glare of electric lights, with the roar and 
melody of a pipe organ sounding in my ears. 

^ 

THE DEVIUS SOLILOQUY* 


[Suggested by hearing a man speak disparagingly of a young 
girl.] 

One night as the devil sat musing alone. 

In the midst of his cozy warm fire. 

Trying to figure the difference in guilt 
^Tween a thief and an all-around liar. 

His memory turned to the scenes of his youth. 

And his eyes filled with hot, boiling tears ; 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


115 


So he took down his ledger and turned to a page 
Dated back about six thousand years. 

'T suppose,” he exclaimed, as he glanced through the 
book, 

doing the best that I can. 

For my business denotes a continual increase 
Ever since the creation of man. 

IVe cribbed a good harvest for six thousand years. 

And should be content with the yield, 

And give my opponent permission to have 
The gleanings I leave in the field. 

^TVe gathered a very diversified crop 
Of merchants and lawyers galore; 

IVe bound politicians in bundles until 
The ends of my fingers are sore. 

IVe fiddlers, gamblers and insurance men; 

I\e murderers, forgers and liars; 

And filled up my furnace with green populists 
^Till they actually put out the fires. 

^T^ve railroad conductors and doctors to spare 
Horse traders and preachers to spend, 

Kepublicans, Democrats, tories and whigs. 

And two or three newspaper men. 

But there is one class, I^m happy to say. 

Can never gain entrance here; 

Their souls are so dirty I^m sure that they would 
Demoralize hell in a year. 

‘T refer to that ^thing^ neither human nor beast — 

The carrion crow of the world — 


116 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


Who never is happy unless he can feast 
On the wreck of an innocent girl. 

A million of years in my warmest of rooms 
His slanders would never atone; 

So I give him a match and advise him to start 
A select little hell of his own.^’ 

With his fingers he lit an asbestos cigar. 

And placing his book on a shelf, 

He muttered : “I may be a very bad man. 

But I\e got some respect for myself/^ 

^ ^ ^ 

A FISH STORY FOR FISHERMEN ONLY* 


[In which the writer endeavors to show the absolute perver- 
sity of the finny tribe.] 

I have never made a canvass to definitely determine 
the fact, yet I am almost positive that nine-tenths of 
the readers of the Harpoon are fond of fishing. 

Acting on this presumption, I have decided to write 
a fishing story, and hereby warn all my readers that if 
they object to reading sueh matter, they had Just as well 
close this book, say their prayers, blow out the electric 
light, roll up in their blanket, fall in bed and sweat it 
out. 

One of the first things I can remember occurred when 
I was a small boy — and very small at that. In fact, I 
was never large, and at the tender. Juicy age of seven, if 
by chance I fell asleep without undressing, my mother 
always took the precaution to spread a newspaper on the 


K. Lamity's Texas Tales. 


117 


floor, gather up my scanty raiment and carefully shake 
it over the paper. She was afraid she vwld lose me, 
for, although I was small and dwarfed at both ends, the 
dear old soul (who then lived at Corn Hill, Williamson 
county, Texas) saw from the three-cornered shape of 
my head and the nervous activity of my appetite that 
there was something in me — especially just after meal 
time. Between the age of five and six I exhibited strong 
characteristics, which none but a loving mother could 
have detected. As I grew older these traits of character 
grew more and more pronounced, and even today my 
friends speak of them with pride. 

I was different from most boys — not at all like the 
common herd. What pleased my playmates never in- 
terested me in the least. Our nearest neighbor had a 
large family of boys, and also a full consignment of 
girls. Even now I remember the names and the feat- 
ures of nine of the boys and seven of the girls, and that 
is not near the entire family. This may sound a trifle 
strange, but in that family twenty-one children were 
bom unto one fa'ther and mother. The parents came 
from Indiana. What changes might have been effected 
politically had that family never moved to Texas no 
one will ever know, for all of them 'were good Demo- 
crats. 

These boys always rose by daylight and disturbed the 
other members of the family by splitting wood, making 
fires, feeding stock, and other silly things, and seemed 
to enjoy it. I never cared for such things. I preferred 
to lie still until the breakfast bell rang and give other 
folks a chance to rest. Those boys all went to work at 


118 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


sunrise. I never did, if I could help it. Work always 
made me tired. 

Eeferring again to my earliest recollection recalls the 
fact that it was the story of Christ and his followers 
read to me by my mother as I stood by her knee. She 
explained it all to me, and said that little boys should 
all start out right when they were young, and she wanted 
me to be just like Simon Pdter and his brother Andrew, 
and follow in their steps. I knew they were fishermen, 
so I then and there determined to be a fisherman, and 
while at times necessity has compelled me to pull in my 
line and follow some worldly occupation, still my heart 
yearns to be like these great disciples, to lie under the 
shadow of some big willow tree with nothing to do but 
to look at the fieecy clouds overhead drifting slowly 
across the blue sky, watch the bobble of my cork, and 
reach for the bait can. 

The whole world and all the people therein are fish- 
ers, but they won’t acknowledge it. The merchant who 
fills his show windows with the gaudiest articles, and 
the newspaper with alluring and alleged bargains, is a 
fisherman. The lawyer who hangs his shingle out for 
air is a fisherman. The railway companies who decorate 
the streets with highly-colored posters, advertising some 
secluded tophet as an Alpine summer resort, are fisher- 
men pure and simple. The organizers of all companies 
who advertise dusters and pumpers as gushers are fish- 
ermen, but this class never use a hook and line. They ^ 
prefer trammel nets, which never fail to catch coming 
and going. When the farmer drives his wagon into 
town loaded with com, and all the big ears are care- 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


119 


fully piled on top, be has simply gone fishing. When 
the wood hauler stops at your gate with six inches of 
nice, split cedar on top and a crowds nest of assorted 
brush on the bottom, he is merely throwing out a hand- 
line baited with fresh beef liver, and if there is a mud 
cat in reach, he lands him. Lottery and slot machine 
men never go to the trouble or expense of using live 
minnows. They only expect to catch one sort of fish, 
which bites at nothing but mush. So, taking humanity "■ 
all down the line, we find them either fishing for fish 
or fishing for men. 

Several of the disciples were fishers, hut they spent 
their time exclusively after the finny tribe. Christ was 
a fisher, but a fisher of men, and when he saw Peter and 
Andrew at work, he told them to follow him, and he 
would make them ^^fishers of men.^’ Matt., 4 :19. They 
went with him, and fished for men, yet they occasionally 
went back to their nets. 

The devil is represented as a great lover of this sport. 

I remember hearing my old-time friend and religious 
co-worker, Eev. E. H. H. Burnett, the well-known evan- 
gelist, once repeat the following poem: 

“The Devil sat by the riverside. 

By the Stream of Time, where you always find him. 
Casting his line in the rushing tide. 

And landing the fish on the bank behind him. 

“Sometimes he would laugh and sometimes sing. 

For better luck no one could wish. 

And he seemed to know, for a dead sure thing. 

The bait best suited for every fish. 


120 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


“He caught them as fast as a man could count, 

Big or little, Twas all the same — 

One bait was a check for a large amount. 

An editor nabbed it — and out he came. 

“Then he took a gem that as Saturn shone. 

It sank in the river without a sound — 

And he caught a woman who long was known 
As the purest and sweetest for miles around. 

“Quoth the devil, ‘The fishing is rare and fine,^ 

And he took a drink, somewhat enthused. 

But a baldheaded preacher swam round the line. 

And e’en -the most tempting bait refused. 

“He baited with gold and costly gems. 

Hung fame and honor upon the line. 

Dressing govms with embroidered hems — 

But still the Parson made no sign. 

“Then a Woman’s Garter went on the hook — 

‘I’ve got him now,’ said the devil, brightening. 

And then hds sides with laughter shook. 

And he landed that Preacher quicker than light- 
ning.” 

As for my part, I never enjoyed fishing for men. 
Even if you make a big catch in that line, most of the 
fish are not worth stringing. I prefer just plain, com- 
mon pole fishing for game fish, and am averse to trot 
lines, seines and dynamite. In this connection, I will 
relate a little story of a very memorable fishing trip I 
once made to Handle’s lake in Milam county, Texas. 


K. Lamity's Texas Tales. 


121 


Hon. Nat. H. Tracy, and Mr. D. Sanford, of Koekdale, 
were my companions, and we went for a three days’ 
stay. 

On our way out we stopped at the San Grabriel river, 
and while Colonel Tracy and myself remained on the 
bank and encouraged them, D. Sanford and the negro 
driver waded out in the cold water, and with a minnow 
seine succeeded in catching several hundred of the finest 
^%hiners” that were ever hung on a hook. Mr. Sanford 
suggested several times that Colonel Tracy and I come 
in and help pull the seine, but we explained to him that 
we had best remain on the shore and hold the horses 
for fear they might wake up and run away. Being in 
the early April the water was not up to summer heat, 
and finally, when D. came out his teeth were popping 
like a Studebaker wagon, his lips were blue as an egg 
plant, while the negix) was almost a blonde. 

It was early in the morning when we reached the lake, 
and leaving our team and effects with the negro driver, 
we were soon in the boat, endeavoring to induce the big- 
mouthed, active bass and the beautiful lazy white perch 
to join us at the dinner table. 

Did you ever notice how contrary ^sh are sometimes ? 
The day was perfect, the air as balmy as perfume from 
a tropical garden, and just brisk enough to produce a 
gentle ripple upon that beautiful, clear body of water. 
In our minds we knew we had them, and dropping an- 
chor in eighteen feet of water near an old half- 
sunken tree, we got down to business. 

Where on earth can you find such pleasure as when 
sitting in a gently-rocking boat with jolly companions 


122 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


and lighted cigars, yon watch your cork gently ^^dod- 
dle^^ around propelled by a big, active minnow? Talk 
about your banquets, and your social functions, your 
operas, balls, and the different classes of amusements 
and pleasures so dear to the average heart; why, bless 
your soul, when compared to the boalt scene depicted 
above they are as chaff to wheat, as snow flakes to ice- 
bergs, as jay birds to wild turkeys, as a dose of castor 
oil to a Beaumont gusher. I know I am as social as any 
one, and have an abnormal appreciation of the one thing 
so dear to the heaflts of all true men, but were I on the 
margin of some beautiful lake, reclining at the feet of 
the most fascinating and lovely creature that ever used 
hair pins, and some fellow passing by in a boat with 
tackle and live minnows asked me to join him. I would 
beg the young lady to excuse me, and go fishing. I 
would figure that I could easily find the girl (or an- 
other one just as handsome), while if I neglected to go 
fishing it might be ten years before I had another such 
opportunity. 

For two hours we sat as still as Indian babies on their 
mothers^ backs, and never got a bite. Occasionally 
Colonel Tracy would light another cigar, roll his big 
eyes around at us, but D. and I said nothing. The sun 
climbed higher and higher, and our hopes for a fish 
dinner dropped lower and lower. Suddenly Colonel 
Tracy’s cork gave a sudden dive and came quickly back 
to the top. All eyes were now riveted on that little 
bit of painted cork, and not a particle of smoke came 
from either of the three lighted cigars. ^Tt’s a bass,” 
whispered the colonel, in a stage whisper, as he gripped 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


123 


his split bamboo firmly and got ready for the final strug- 
gle. D. and I simply nodded and breathed lightly. 
Again the cork disappeared, only to instantly reappear 
on top of the water. ^^HeTl take it presently,” whis- 
pered the colonel, as his half-smoked cigar slipped 
quietly from his mouth and sputtered in the water. 
^^Chug^^ went the cork out of sight, and the colonel gave 
a spasmodic jerk, and began to reel in the line. 

“He’s a three-pounder, by cricket,” said the colonel, 
as he pulled on the rather slothful, though weighty, 
catch, and the next moment up came the ugliest and 
nastiest three-pound mud turtle I ever saw. 

❖ * * * * * * * f p? 

These stars represent the vociferous and unprintable 
remarks made by the colonel as he drew the villainous 
creature in the boat, placed his foot on his back, pulled 
its bead far out of the shell and sawed its neck in two 
with his pocket knife. D. and I laughed immoderately, 
and the colonel kept on talking in the same strain. 

The hours passed by swiftly, and soon we were aston- 
ished to hear our negro calling us to dinner. We pulled 
up anchor, rowed to shore and went to camp in no fine 
humor. 

About two o’clock we started again for the boat, full 
of fried bacon, canned goods and determination to have 
fish for supper, if we had to dig a canal and drain the 
lake. On leaving the boat for the ,camp we had left 
our lines in the water, and when we returned we were 
surprised to find that the colonel had a two-pound bass 
safely hung on his hook, my line had been pulled under 
a snag, while D.’s long, heavy cane pole was out in the 


124 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


middle of the lake, making good speed for the opposite 
shore. The colonel pulled in his fish, and although his 
back was toward us, we could see the smile extending 
clear around to his back collar button. I soon succeeded 
in loosening my hook, and was pleased to find a white 
perch of fair size thereon. We quickly got under way 
and lit out after D.’s pole, and on overtaking it, he 
soon had the pleasure of bringing a five-pound channel 
catfish inside the boat. 

Then we were happy, and knew the fish had begun 
to bite, and that from that time until sundown all we 
had to do was to bait our hooks and cast out our lines 
in confident mood. But no one got a bite. The colonel 
changed seats. D. spit on his bait, while I turned my 
hat around on my head to change our luck. These 
charms are well known to all fishermen, and, as a rule, 
never fail to work, but strange to say, our corks simply 
nodded around in a small circle, propelled by the big 
bright “shiners^^ that were used as bait. 

^‘Seems like something is wrong,” growled the col- 
onel, as he lit his third cigar and blew out a wonderful 
quantity of smoke. ^^Dad gum my cats if I ever saw 
fish so crazy.” 

‘^Me and you both,” said D., as he arose and placed 
his coat on the seat. ‘T’ve sat here till I feel doubled 
up like a rusty pocket knife, and have worn that plank 
seat so thin I^m afraid it will break with me. If some- 
thing donT happen pretty sudden, I^m going to the 
river and try to catch catfish tonight.” 

Little River, a considerable stream, was only half a 
mile away, and after fishing until sundown, and using 


K. Lamity's Texas Tales. 


125 


every charm and device known to the art, and never get- 
ting even a nibble, we all threw np the sponge, rowed 
ashore, and prepared to go to the river. 

On reaching the stream we began to put out ^^set 
lines,” and by dark had caught several channel catfish. 
About 10 o’clock we decided to retire, and spread our 
quilts and blankets on top of a newly erected levee that 
had been thrown up to prevent overflows. As the top 
of the embankment was barely four feet wide, we had 
to use individual bedding. I was on the west end, the 
colonel in the middle, while D. occupied the eastern 
pallet. 

The moon shone bright, the air was cool and crisp, 
and we soon fell asleep. The colonel is a very sound 
and loud sleeper, and you can hear him slumber for one 
hundred and fifty yards. 

Sometime in the night a slight noise awakened me, 
and sitting up on my blankets I listened. The colonel’s 
head was near my feet, while D. was just beyond him. 
I heard nothing save the colonel’s nasal solo, which he 
was running in the chromatic scale, and the occasional 
low, heavy bass challenge of a monstrous bullfrog down 
on the river bank, who seemed quite perplexed and jeal- 
ous of the colonel’s musical ability. 

All at once I heard a low, squeaky sound, and dis- 
covered some animal or animals twenty yards past D. 
and moving in our direction. I arose, and instantly I 
saw it was a couple of large polecats, and that they 
were ambling along on top of the levee towai^ds our 
beds. 

I yelled at D., who immediately sprang to his feet, 


126 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


gave the colonel a vigorous kick and then leaped down 
the embankment. I followed suit, yelling at the colonel, 
who by this time had put on the soft pedal and closed 
up his solo very much like a Scotchman shuts off a bag 
pipe. 

^^What in the thunder ails you fellows ?” inquired the 
colonel, rubbing his eyes. ^‘Have you got the jimmies 
or the — gosh almighty — and he came down the em- 
bankment on all-fours and galloped thirty yards in that 
manner before he got to his feet. He never got away 
any too soon, as the cats were almost onto his feet. 

The villainous and pugnacious felines seemed to like 
the soft bed clothes, and as the only weapons we could 
find were small clods of dirt, it took us ten minutes to 
beat them off the embankment, and they disappeared 
in the brush that fringed the river bank. 

By using copious doses of Kentucky Hair Eestorer, 
we finally got our hats on and spent the balance of the 
night fishing, with fine success. Next morning we re- 
turned to the lake, but the weather had turned cloudy, 
a choppy southwest wind was blowing, and occasionally 
rain would fall. 

“Well, this breaks up our fishing for this trip,^’ re- 
marked D., as he reached over and with his fork har- 
pooned a large boneless slice of fried fish. “We had 
just as well roll up our lines and hit the road for Eock- 
dale.^^ 

The chances did look slim, and we agreed with him. 
The showers grew more frequent, the wind came in ugly 
gusts, and our little tent alone saved us from a drench- 
ing. By the time we had finished eating the rain held 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


1'27 


up a little, and we began to get onr traps in readiness to 
move out. 

believe I will run down to the lake and try a cast 
for luck, while you fellows pack up,” remarked the col- 
onel, and although we told him it was time wasted, he 
picked up his pole and minnow bucket and started. In 
less than five minutes we heard him give a war whoop, 
^ and away we rushed to the boat, just in time to see him 
haul in a fine, large bass. 

All thoughts of home were gone, and in a few min- 
utes we were all in the boat, and pulling in bass and 
white perch as fast as heart could wish. Soon the wind 
grew stronger, the rain came down, but the fish kept 
on biting as though they had been on short rations for 
six weeks. It continued raining and blowing until 13 
o’clock, and when we were called to dinner we were wet 
as wharf rats and had a string of fish as long as an 
ice bill on the first of the month. 

We remained the three days, and it kept blowing and 
raining, and the fish bit faster than ever, which caused 
the colonel to grumblingly remark: 

^^By gum, I’ve always said a fish ain’t got as much 
sense as a Digger Indian.” 

^ ^ ^ 

LOST TWICE— A GIRL. 


The most desolate feeling on earth to a human being 
is to realize that he is lost. So long as a hunter in some 
dense forest fancies he has his bearings, he is all right, 
but once let him discover that he has lost his landmarks. 


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K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


he at once collapses into a state of frenzied despair, and 
never fails to go tearing off in precisely the wrong di- 
rection. 

Whenever word reaches a man that some human being 
is missing from his accustomed haunts, and is probably 
lost, no effort will be spared to hunt until the wanderer 
is found and returned to his friends. 

I am going to write a true story, not from hearsay, 
but from personal knowjedge, concerning a girl who was 
lost twice. 

Many, many years ago,^ before time had put the frost- 
ing on the writer’s head, I lived in a little village noted 
for its piety, temperance, social and moral culture. The 
citizens were exemplary people, and lived more like one 
large, happy family than a community of 1000 souls. 

On Sunday mornings the big bells rang out their sol- 
emn peal, calling the people to church, and for a couple 
of hours the homes were left unlocked and practically 
deserted, while the population were offering their devo- 
tion to God. 

Among the numerous children of that quiet Tittle 
village was a girl — Nellie Hollings — six years of age. 
Of course, that was not her name, but names cut no 
ice in the stories of life. I remember her well. She 
was a well-formed, sprightly little creature with great 
big brown eyes that always seemed to be looking clear 
through you. Her hair fell in tumultuous showers of 
crinkled gold over her shoulders, and her skin looked 
like a goblet of milk lit up by a streak of red sunshine. 
In my boyish imagination I thought her mouth the most 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


129 


perfect bit of dainty perfection ever turned out of Na- 
ture’s workshop. To be honest — and God knows every- 
body is sometimes — I thought Nellie Hollings the most 
perfect little scrap of angelic humanity on earth. 

She was 6 years old — I was 20. Every man, woman 
and child in the village knew her, and they all idolized 
the merry, laughing little beauty. If a day passed and 
Nellie was not seen on the village street alone, or in 
company with some member of the family, everybody 
felt like something was wrong. 

I will never forget the shock of terror I felt one 
bright spring morning, when a man rushed into the 
store in which I was employed, and exclaimed, ^‘Little 
Nellie Hollings is lost in the woods. She went out with 
some older children in search of berries, and got lost. 
They have searched for her for hours, and have found 
her tracks in the mud near the river, and believe she has 
fallen in and has been drowned.” 

The package I was wrapping fell from my hands. 
The customer did not notice it, but started hurriedly 
for the door. The proprietor of the store dropped his 
pen, grabbed his coat, yelled to me, “Close up the store,” 
and hastened out. I followed as quickly as possible, 
and soon Joined a crowd of men, women and even chil- 
dren, who were hurrying up the bank of the river. I 
remember that I did not even lock the store house door. 
No man would steal anything in that town, when Nellie 
Hollings was believed to be dead or in danger. The 


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K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


wliole Lopulation turned out en masse to search for, and 
if possible, rescue the little village pet. 

All the remainder of that day the woods were scoured 
and diligently searched by hundreds of people, but no 
trace was found except one little footprint near the 
river bank, and even this was not definitely known to be 
that of Nellie Hollings. Men and boys dragged the river 
bottom, swam and dived beneath the cold waters search- 
ing for the little corpse, but without success. The par- 
ents were wild with grief, and the entire population little 
better off. Towards night the women and children, 
weak and broken-hearted, returned to their homes, but 
the men and older boys kept up the search. 

Just before dark the crowd had gathered together 
near the place where little Nellie had last been seen, 
and a council was held in order to try and determine 
on some systematic plan of search. The moon was shin- 
ing almost as light as day, and the scene was one I will 
never forget. 

Finally one man, a leader in church matters, said: 
know that there is not a man, woman or child in 
this community today, who in their hearts have not 
asked God to help them discover the lost child. How- 
ever, I now propose that we all kneel down on the 
ground, and renew our petitions to the Euler of earth 
and sky. Christ spent His life on earth in searching for 
the lost, and died in His efforts to redeem them.’^ 

In a moment the great crowd of men and boys sank 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


131 


down upon their knees, and the good man led them in 
prayer. 

^^Oh, God/’ he cried, ^^Thou knowest our earnest de- 
sire, and we implore Thee to grant it. Our little one is 
lost — a tiny lamb has strayed from the fold — a little 
sparrow his fallen — Thou, 0 God, only knowest where. 
Lead us, 0 Lord, in the right direction. Guide us along 
the proper path. In Thy great mercy help us in some 
manner to follow the footsteps of the little wanderer, 
and, 0 God, in Jesus’ name let us find her alive.” 

I am sure there was not a dry eye among all that 
large number of people, and even strong men sobbed 
aloud. At the conclusion of the prayer, and just at 
the moment when some definite plan of search was being 
discussed, the tramp of horses’ feet was heard, and four 
horsemen joined the crowd. Three were white men, and 
one a negro. The negro was leading by a rope an old, 
poor, long-eared hound. 

Explanations quickly followed. Late in the evening 
one young man hearing of the lost child, had galloped 
twelve miles to the negro’s house, knowing that he had 
a dog that was claimed to have been trained for follow- 
ing the trail of a human being. The negro was confi- 
dent that he could find the baby, provided he could be 
shown the right track, and while on their way back, 
they were joined by two other men, all eager to be of 
some aid in discovering the whereabouts of the lost 
child. 

As a matter of fact the dog did not impress me as 
being able to do the work. He was a most disreputable. 


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K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


hungry, snrly-looking old bea^t, and looked like he was 
intended by nature to hunt hens’ nests, or lie around the 
back door of a beef market. However, no harm could 
come from a trial, so the men dismounted, and as peo- 
ple had been tramping all over the ground, and the 
wrong trail might be taken, it was proposed to carry the 
dog down to the river some three hundred yards away, 
and start him on the footprints that were supposed to 
have been made by the little wanderer. 

^^Now all you gem’en ’oep’n one whb knows whah de 
track is, stay way back, and don’t say ah word,” said old 
Manse, the negro, ^‘^an if dat’s de right, an de propah 
track, if Bose don’t ’scover dat chile^ I’se gwinter kill ’im, 
dat’s all. Now dis ain’t no coon hunt, gem’en, and if 
he opens on de trail, you all jes’ keep your moufs shet 
an let Bose do all de talkin’. Come on Bose — ^heah’s 
er big discuit fo’ yo’ now, an’ if you find dat baby yo’ll 
git er whole pan full of ’em when yo’ gits home.” 

Bose took the biscuit quickly, there was only one 
spasmodic gulp, and it was gone. 

One man was selected to point out the track, and 
they went forward, the crowd following quietly some dis- 
tance in the rear. There was an open space from the 
river reaching back about fifty yards, and here the 
crowd halted, and watched the two men as they ap- 
proached the water’s edge where the footprints had been 
found. The moon was shining brightly, and every ob- 
ject nearby was plainly visible. Not a sound came from 
the anxious crowd at the edge of the woods. We all 
saw the track pointed out to old Manse, and then his 
guide walked hastily back and joined the crowd. 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


133 


“^^See heah Bose/^ we could hear the negro say, ‘^dar’s 
business tonight, ole man. Evahbody’s got his eye on 
you, old boss, an^ you’d better come thoo.” We could 
all hear him patting the head of the ugly old hound. 
^^Now dar’s de track, Bose, an’ I’se gwinter stand right 
Heah an’ let you ’spect it. Now yo’ do business, ole man, 
an’ if yo’ find da^t baby ’fore Gaud I’ll give you a whole 
side of bacon when we giits home.” 

For ten minutes not a sound was heard, not a human 
being moved. Every eye was riveted on the man and 
dog at the river bank. The hound, when relieved of the 
rope from around his neck, shook himself, scratched the 
ground with his feet, and 'trotted down to the river 
and began lapping the water. It seemed to me that he 
intended to drink it dry. The negro waited patiently, 
and said nothing. Finally the dog finished drinking, 
trotted around over the ground, smelling here and there, 
and indulging in more shaking and clawing up dirt. 
After what seemed an age to the anxious people, he re- 
turned to his master, who stooped down and again 
pointed to the tracks. 

^^See heah, yo’ ole devil, is yo’ gwinter take all night 
’fore you do business?” we heard Manse remark. The 
dog stood still for a moment with his nose to the 
ground. Then he walked a few steps up the river — then 
trotted down to the water’s edge — came back to the 
tracks and again stood still. Then he made a little 
circle and finally trotted slowly up stream, stopping 
every few steps to carefully examine the dry flat rocks. 
Then he went some fifty yards further up, where there 


134 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


was more soij and a scant vegetation. Coming at last 
to a little clump of very small bushes, he placed his 
nose against the low twigs for a moment, sniffed so loud 
that we could hear the sound, stood still a moment and 
looked back to his master — then pointing his big black 
nose straight up at the moon he gave vent to one long, 
loud howl. 

^^Den you spoke a mouf full,” exclaimed old Manse. 
^^Now you gem^en f oiler way back behind and be quiet, 
for Bose is gwinter ’scover de ownah of dat little shoe, 
no diff^nce who and whai she is.” 

It is simply impossible to describe the excitement ex- 
perienced by the men behind. No one spoke a word, 
yet you could hear each breath drawn, so great was the 
mental strain. The dog soon gave another howl, and 
kept slowly up the river bank. The valley along the 
stream was comparatively clear, and I will never forget 
how my heart ached and thumped every time the dog 
approached the deep, swift stream. I feared the trail 
ended in the water. 

The track was followed slowly for half a mile. Some- 
times it came right to the river bank, only to turn ab- 
ruptly away. Finally the dog left the open valley and 
entered the woods. Here it was a dense brake of oaks 
and cedars, and it was with difficulty that a man could 
pass through them. How every heart leaped with joy 
when the trail left the river. Each anxious searcher 
gained courage, for we knew the river was the greatest 
danger, and if the child had gone into the cedar brake, 
there were chances of finding her alive, as there were no 
wild animals likely to molest her in that region. 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


135 


The baying of the dog grew more frequent, but as he 
was trained to go slow, we managed to keep near at hand. 
Through the densest cedar thickets — across little open 
glades — down steep gullies and up steeper banks went 
the hound, at every ten steps uttering that dismal howl 
that sounded to our ears sweeter than ^olian harps. 

We had gone nearly two miles. It seemed incredible 
that a tiny six-year-old child could have made the trip 
unaided across such a country, and each person began to 
fear lest the dog had gotten on the wrong track, and was 
following the trail of some of the searching parties who 
had been scouring the woods all day. 

After passing through a dense thicket of bushes and 
brambles, and entering a little open space, we saw old 
Manse standing still in front of us. The dog was at his 
side. 

^^Does any of yo^ gem’en know what kinder close de 
chile had on?” he asked, ^^kase I found dis scrap hang- 
in’ on de bushes right back dar.” Instantly little Nel- 
lie’s fifteen-year-old brother came forward,, quickly 
glanced at the fragment of cloth, and cried, “It’s a piece 
of Nellie’s apron,” and one man in the crowd gave a war 
whoop. 

“Hold on dar, boss — hold on — I tole you gem’en to 
let Bose do all the talkin’. Dis ain’t no convention and 
you’ll flusticate de dowg if you go to hollerin’. Jest wait 
a little while and den you can yell all you like.” He 
again started the hound forward, and it took consider- 
able talking and some very vicious threats from Manse 
to keep the dog in check. The trail was getting warm, 
and the dog opened viciously every moment. 


136 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


We soon entered another terrible thicket, and it re- 
quired all our strength to even press through the tangled 
bushes and briars. All at once the dog ceased his pro- 
longed howls. Every one stopped. Even old Manse, 
who was only twenty feet ahead kept quiet. The next 
moment the hound began barking furiously, in short, 
sharp notes, and old Manse yelled, ^^Bose is treed,” and 
there was a rush through the brush like the stampede of 
a band of Texas steers. In a moment we had all lined 
up on the bank of the precipice, and there stood the dog 
peeping over the bluff and barking. Great God ! had 
the poor little one tumbled down that terrible declivity ? 
Had we found her only to discover that she was dead? 

Old Manse had swung himself down by a small sap- 
ling, and we could hear him down among the rocks and 
bushes. ^^Hold on up dar, gem’en — let me do de work 
down heah. You might start a rock and smash me 
up.” 

Three minutes seemed three hours. Slowly the negro 
worked himself down the bluff, and we could hear him 
mumbling to himself. The dog still stood above and 
barked vigorously. 

Suddenly there was quiet below, even the hound 
ceased yelping and leaned over, peeping into the semi- 
darkness. Then we heard a faint, weak, childish wail. 
^^Here she is,” yelled Manse, and then bedlam turned 
loose. 

Such yells, such screams of joy, such vociferous 
thanks to God I have never heard before. 

In a few moments Manse came toiling up the bluff 


K . Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


337 


carrying a little white form in his brawny arms, and 
we knew that Nellie Hollings was found, and was alive. 
********* 

It was days before the little maiden had recovered 
from her terrible bruises and fright, and was again 
seen on the streeits. The incident made a deep impres- 
sion upon every person who lived in the community. 
Years rolled by, and the little village pet had grown into 
one of the most beautiful, lovable and accomplished girls 
I ever knew. In the little village her name was one to 
conjure with. Everybody knew her, everybody loved 
her. 

About this time I left the little town in quest of For- 
tune — that fickle goddess who rides in an automobile, 
and whom men pursue on foot. I had located in a dis- 
tant city. Turmoil of business, added to the distance, 
prevented me from seldom hearing from the old town. 
Once I had seen a friend from the little village who, 
among other things, said that Nellie Hollings, who was 
about twenty years of age, was engaged to be married 
to a young man who had come to that town several years 
after my departure. He was the son of some wealthy 
man in some old Eastern town, or other, was a college 
law graduate, very aristocratic, and had carried off Nel- 
lie^s heart by storm. 

In my heart I certainly envied the fortunate young^ 
man, and also wished all good fortune to my former lit- 
tle girl friend. 

^H:******* 

Several more years had passed, and one day I re- 
ceived a note by messenger, which read as follows: 


138 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


^^Please come to see me. I am in great distress. No. 

121 — street, room No. 14. (Signed) Nellie 

Hollings.’^ 

Had a giant firecracker exploded under my feet, I 
would not have received a greater surprise. What was 
the matter ? How did she get to that city ? If she was 
still ‘^Nellie Hollings,^^ she had not been married as had 
been reported. 

The weather was cold. The streets were covered with 
sleet, but I donned overshoes and warm overcoat, and 
calling a carriage, told the driver the address. He 
looked at me very quizzical, but mounted the box and 
off we went. He drove some two miles or more, left the 
better portion of the city, entered what was known to be 
a very disreputable district, and at last stopped in front 
of a two-story house that looked more like a livery stable 
than a dwelling. 

I dismounted from the carriage, told the driver to 
wait for me, and he said he would be at a small saloon 
just across the street. The door was answered by a big, 
fat, slouchy woman, who silently conducted me to ^^room 
No. 14,^’ and told me to open the door and go in. The 
room was poorly lighted, but in one comer was a low 
bed, and I saw that some human being occupied it. 
There was no fire in the room, only two old rickety 
chairs and a small, cheap board table. I walked over to 
the bed, and as I did so a woman raised up and ex- 
claimed, ^^Oh, thank God you are here. I was afraid 
you would not come,” and with disheveled hair and 


K . Lamity's Texas Tales. 


139 


streaming eyes the wreck of pretty Nellie Hollings was 
before me. She grasped my hands, wept like a child, 
and seemed almost to go into convulsions. 

^^Oh, I am lost again,^^ she wailed, ^^and yon are the 
only friend that has ever tried to find me.^’ 

I canT describe her looks. The great mass of golden 
curls that reached to her waist, was her only natural 
feature. Her big, brown eyes looked like those of a 
hunted animal. Her beautiful form had given place 
to a wasted skeleton. Her once lovely mouth was 
parched and drawn, and I doubt if her own mother 
would have recognized her. 

I found it impossible to pacify her. By the touch 
of her hands I knew she had a burning fever, so I told 
her I would at once take her to where she would receive 
medical attention and tender care. She made no objec- 
tion — only continuing to weep, sob and thank me for 
coming. By the aid of the landlady and the carriage 
driver, I soon laid her in the vehicle, wrapped up in the 
miserable old blanket which I had to buy from the land- 
lady. In half an hour the wretched woman was in a 
hospital, and in safe hands. When I left, she begged me 
to come back to see her, which I promised to do. 

I learned from the physician the next day that she 
was a very sick woman. Cold, exposure and principally 
hunger were the causes. She was delirious, and I left, 
telling the doctor to phone me when he thought my 
presence would be of benefit. 


140 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


Several days later I was summoned, and on entering 
the hospital the doctor said : ^^The young woman is con- 
scious, and wants to see you. She is very weak, but you 
can talk to her as long as she desires, for it can not harm 
her. She will not live twenty-four hours. 

These stars denote that I have skipped about that 
many pages in this story. There is some of it I could 
not write, even now, for weeping. So I leave it out. 

Briefly speaking, the story that Nellie told me was 
the old, old one. I sat two hours by the clean, white bed 
and held her little wasted hands. Her cheeks were 
sunken, but red as crimson with the heat of fever. How 
helpless and pitiable she looked! I. did not want to 
have her repeat her troubles, but she would not cease 
talking. Even then, while voluntarily telling me of her 
past life, her eyelids would fall, and her fever-heated 
cheeks grow still a deeper crimson with shame. 

She had been engaged to be married, and committed 
some silly indiscretion, which was rumored around 
the town. It was nothing criminal — ^nothing to be con- 
demned for — yet it passed from mouth to mouth until 
it assumed gigantic proportions. From her story, I am 
even now satisfied the report was started by the scoun- 
drel to whom she was engaged. There are many such 
cases that are never reported in the papers. 

Soon her dearest friends passed her without speak- 
ing. To a high-strung, nervous temperament like hers, 
this was like thrusting a dagger into her vitals. First 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


141 


she wondered, then she wept, then she grew desperate. 
Men and women, the acquaintances of her childhood, 
accepted the slanderous rumors as truth, and gave her 
no more chance for mercy or vindication than does a 
wolf give the suckling lamb which he has stolen from 
the flock. So far she was not lost, still her former 
friends were either maliciously or ignorantly driving her 
into the brakes and forests. 

have walked down the streets of that little vil- 
lage,^^ she said, “as innocent as when I said my prayers 
at mother^s knee. I would pass a crowd of my former 
friends, men and women, and they did not seem to knov/ 
I was alive. 0, my heart did ache. Oh, how often 1 
wished that my friends had never hunted for me when 
I was lost in the mountains. About this time mother 
died. My father had died three years before. My 
brother, bold and loyal, tried to put an end to the bab- 
bling tongues, yet this only made matters worse. Then 
it was that the man whom I loved better than I did my 
life persuaded me to leave the town, meet him at an- 
other place, we would marry, and leave forever the trou- 
bles behind. I went. He met me, and by one pretext 
or another the marriage was postponed. It never did 
occur. In less than twelve months I found myself de- 
serted and penniless. The rest is easily guessed.’’ 
********* 
Nellie Hollings died next morning, and was decently 
interred. The memory of the unfortunate girl will 
always remain with me. In her last moments of de- 
lirium, she babbled of running water and deep forests. 


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,K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


bright flowers and wild berries, and piteously begged 
some one to go out and hunt for her. ^^Won’t some one 
ask the dogs to hunt for me?” she cried in wild deliriam. 
^^Everybody has deserted me, but oh, surely the dogs will 
have some pity for me, and follow my tracks through 
the woods.” As her breathing grew fainter, and her 
fluttering pulse weaker, she suddenly raised up on her 
elbow, her eyes opened wide, her lips half parted — 
^^Hush — listen — ” she whispered — “I hear them com- 
ing — I hear the sound of voices calling to me — thank 
God I am found at last,” and she fell asleep forever. 

Had Christ met Nellie Hollings, even after she had 
grievously sinned. He would have said, “Neither do I 
condemn thee. Go, and sin no more.” Many of His 
alleged followers, who professed to emulate His exam- 
ple, did not wait until the young girl had sinned to- 
condemn her, but with their foul, malicious, gossip- 
ing tongues reeking with the venom of devils, they 
transformed a sweet and most lovable girl into a miser- 
ble wreck of womanhood. 

I will only briefly mention her betrayer. He very 
imprudently visited the old town two years later, met 
Nellie’s brother, was cut into doll rags by the outraged 
relative, and if his soul is not in hell, it ought to be. If 
such scoundrels go to heaven, I don’t want to go. So 
far as he is concerned, I could And better company at the 
other place. 

Who are the people to blame for the unfortunate- 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


143 


wreck of Nellie Hollings ? Any lawyer will tell yon that 
the man who aids, encourages and assents to a murder 
is as guilty as the one who does the killing. Every liv- 
ing human being that repeated that senseless and mali- 
cious slander against Nellie Hollings assisted in murder- 
ing her. Had they slipped into her bedroom at night 
and plunged a dagger into her breast, it would have been 
merciful compared to the fate to which they condemned 
that helpless and innocent girl. 

Beware, you tattlers and gossips, who play ping- 
pong with the characters of men and women. You may 
go to church every Sunday, sing with the choir, pray 
prayers as loud as a fire bell and ‘as long as a stake rope, 
and still be one of the most unmitigated hellions un- 
hung. You can not serve God in public and take a lay« 
off in private to work for the devil. YouVe got to do* 
right, talk right, think right and keep right, or you 
havnT got as much show for heaven as Bryan has to be* 
President of the United States^ and thaPs allowing you 
a big margin. 

I believe in right, in fairness, in justice. Christ de- 
clared He would save a repentant sinner, and I am will- 
ing to take His word. Therefore, I believe that when 
the spirit of Nellie Hollings comes before the judge of 
all mankind, a gentle voice will say, ^^Come into life 
eternal. I, too, have suffered and understand it.^^ 


144 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


FLL BET YOU KNOW THE GENTLEMAN. 


He can not raise potatoes, and he can not harvest wheat, 
He says he isnT hungry, but he never fails to eat. 

He can not preach the gospel, and he can not teach a 
school. 

And always does his plowing with a nigger and a mule. 

In buying on a credit, he has never had a peer. 

He always wanted whisky, but would compromise on 
beer. 

He always chews tobacco that he’s never known to buy. 
He can not hit a Cuspidor, but never missed a fly. 

He’s honest — for he never had the energy to steal. 

He never earned a dollar, and he never missed a meal. 
In political discussions he will argue by the hour. 

He damns the ^^corporations,” and he damns ^flhe money 
power.” 

He can show the Legislature how it ought to flnancier, 
And save to poor old Texas twenty millions in a year. 
He always runs for office, but was never known to win. 
And still keeps up the canvass after all the votes are in. 

He blusters like a norther, but he’s timid as a lamb, 

He claims he’s worth his thousands, but he isn’t worth 
a — cent. 

If you know this individual, and his correct address, 

. J ust mark this poem ^Tersonal,” and send it by express. 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


145 


HOW REB. ROBERTSON SAW SNAKES. 


I presume that one of the most uncomfortable feelings 
on earth is to be frightened. I have heard men relate 
their experiences along this line, and they all agree that 
the feeling is one of the most intense agony. 

Personally, I have never known what fright means. 
I have never been frightened by man, beast or ghost, but 
I’ve been scared airless a thousand times. The diseases 
have some very similar characteristics, but are entirely 
different. 

When a man is frightened, he stops perfectly still, 
his eyes open like a sunflower, his hair stands up like 
a passenger on an Austin street car, and his under jaw 
rests upon his shirt front. He tries to pray, but he 
mumbles his sentences so that even the Lord can not 
tell what he is asking for, and his knees gently tap 
against each other merely to keep up their courage. 
Thus like a statue the victim stands, and finds himself 
physically unable to move hand or foot. 

When a man is scared, it is different. While his 
eyes bulge out, his hair rises up and his mouth flies open 
like a fly trap, he moves. In fact, he can not help mov- 
ing, and he soon finds that he is about the swiftest thing 
on legs. Take the ordinary man, who can scarcely out- 
run a road roller, get him well scared, and you can not 
catch him with a greyhound. In this connection, I will 
relate a little incident that occurred in Smith ^ county 
years ago. 

Everybody in East Texas knows Reb. Robertson. He 


146 


K. Lamity's Texas Tales. 


was raised in Tyler, and is now practicing law in 
Orange, Texas, and is a member of the firm of Robert- 
son & Brnce. He is one of the best-natnred men I ever 
knew, and is as jolly a companion as any man conld wish. 
Reb. ^is not at all slender, bnt mostly the other way, and 
donT look like he could outrun a recent calf, but he can, 
when properly worked up to the sprinting act. 

Nearly ten years ago a party of gentlemen, including 
Reb. Robertson and the writer, left Tyler for a fishing 
trip. We went out on the Little Saline, where the old 
government salt works^ were located during the Civil 
war. It was in the early spring, just about the time the 
old turkey gobblers go into politics. The haw blossoms 
had peeped out, the wild daisies were smiling all along 
the banks of the creek, and the cat squirrels were play- 
ing ping-pong with the elm buds. 

In the early spring the big-mouthed, red-eyed bass 
came up the swollen creek in droves, and, using craw- 
fish for bait, it was no trouble to yank them out in large 
numbers. 

On this particular occasion the fish seemed extremely 
hungry, and consequently everybody was happy. The 
weather was delightful. We had a big tent stretched 
to sleep under, as the nights were cool, and even at mid- 
day the sun grew so warm that inside the tent was more 
comfortable than the outside. 

On the second day everybody was pretty well tired 
out, and after dinner several of the boys decided to take 
a nap and let their fried fish get quiet. All of them 
spread blankets under the trees except Reb. Robert- 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales.* 


14:7 


son, who decided that the tent was the proper place for 
a siesta. Not feeling particularly sleepy, the writer ac- 
companied by several of the boys started up the creek to 
continue fishing. We only went about two hundred 
yards, and sat down to fish. In half an hour we had 
caught some half dozen real nice bass, and then they 
stopped biting. After waiting for another half hour, we 
wound up our tackle and decided to return to camp. . 
Just as we were ready to go, my companion espied a 
big black snake, nearly four fe^t long, lying up on a 
low-bending tree sunning himself, and eyeing us with 
great interest. 

Suddenly I remembered that snakes were Reb. Rob- 
ertson’s special aversion. Even a harmless chicken 
snake can make Reb. quit the earth and take to the 
higher stratas of air. I cut a small pole about as large 
as my fishing rod, and about six feet long. To this I 
attached a piece of strong fishing line about three feet 
long, with a noose at the other end of the string, and 
approaching his snakeship cautiously, I had no difficulty 
in dropping the noose over his head, and with a jerk, 
brought him to the ground. Of all the twisting and 
turning you ever saw, that snake beat them all. We 
laughed at his antics, and told him to keep quiet and 
watch Reb. go through with the same performance when 
we go to camp. 

We went on toward the tent dragging the wriggling 
serpent along the ground, and, as we expected, found 
Reb. stretched out under the tent fast asleep. He had 
pinned up all the sides so as to get the breeze, and had 
on just about enough clothes to make a rag doll. He 


148 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


certainly looked too cute, as he lay in all his beauty and 
-innocence. He appeared larger than usual, but that was 
on account of the fried fish. 

Cautiously approaching the front of the tent, I poked 
in the stick, holding the wriggling snake up over Eeb.^s 
feet. At the same moment my friend fired off a shot- 
gun at the side of the tent. 

At the report of the gun Reb. suddenly shut off his 
nasal solo, which had been playing in B-fiat, gave a 
wild snort like the last gallon of water making its escape 
from a bath tub, and raised up on his elbow and rubbed 
his eyes. At that moment he caught sight of that big 
blacksnake squirming and twisting just over his feet, 
and the game was on. 

With one fierce, blood-curdling yell that frightened 
the blackbirds out of the adjacent marsh, and made 
every frog along the creek bank jump in the water, Reb. 
arose like a thing of life and did business on his own 
hook. He made a dive for the rear end of the tent, in- 
tending to escape under the edge, but his head hit the 
cloth and impeded his progress. Nothing could stop 
that mighty center rush. Down went the tent, every 
peg fiew in the air, and Reb. rolled up in it's strong 
folds. Over and over he went, rolling up tighter and 
tighter and uttering screeches and war-whoops that set 
the farmer dogs barking for two miles around. All this 
time I was standing at my original place with my snake, 
and almost exploding. The other boys who were scat- 
tered around, sprung up at the report of the gun, and 
catching on to the situation, were rolling over on the 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


149 


ground tearing up the grass and yelling with laughter. 

Eeb. kept on yelling, kicking and rolling until I 
feared he might have a hemorrhage or something worse, 
so I gave my snake a quieting rap against a tree, and 
hung him across a limb as high as I could reach the 
stick. Then we went to work to get Eeb. out of the 
tent, and finally succeeded. 

I thought he would be exhausted when he got out, 
but he sprang to his feet, made a rush for the nearest 
tree and went up it like a bear. All luck was against 
Eeb. that day. Among the hundreds of trees around 
us, he unfortunately went up the tree on which I had 
hung the snake. 

As he went hustling up the old black gum tree, he 
soon ran afoul of the still-squirming snake. He had 
his arms around it before he knew it. If his first yell 
on seeing the snake in the tent had been a zephyr, this 
one was a cyclone. I never before realized the magnifi- 
cent power of the human lungs and voice. 

Eeb. came down the tree just like two rings dropped 
down a broom handle and hit the ground sitting. 
Springing to his feet and leaving an immense depres- 
sion in the soft earth where he fell, he lit out down 
the valley like he was going to catch the train at Min- 
eola and knew it was just pulling out of town. The 
only intelligible words he had uttered during all the 
time he was rolling around in the tent, outside of some 
highly profane remarks, was when he felt his arms 
touch the cold, squirming reptile up in the tree, and they 
were — Jesus Christ, here’s another.” While he was 
mistaken, as it was the same snake, I shall never forget 


150 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


his comment. It even goes to show that, when we are 
most positive, we may still be wrong. We finally ran 
him down, and got him back to supper. 

at H: * * * * * * * 

Ten long years have passed since this true event oc- 
curred. I swore all the boys to secrecy, and if Eeb. 
sees this paper it will be the first time he ever knew 
the truth of the matter. I dared not write it sooner, 
and would not do it now, but for the fact that he is in 
Orange and I am in Austin. Distance is safer than 
armor plate in any old kind of a difficulty. 

^ ^ ^ 

THE BOLL WEEVIL CONVENTION^ 


Everything that moves and breathes has language. 
Every race of men speak in language peculiar to them- 
selves. The Spanish have the softest and prettiest lan- 
guage on earth. Pure Spanish, spoken by an educated 
native, sounds like the rippling of a mountain stream 
along a bed of ferns and flowers. 

The Germans have a nice, ''large, voluminous lan- 
guage. What they lack in quality they make up in 
quantity. 

Swedes talk real well. I have never been able to un- 
derstand them, even when they spoke English, and when 
talking to each other in their native tongue, I very 
much doubt whether or not they understand each other 
fully. 

Indians speak any old language, but tbeir principal 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


151 


manner of com.m nni cation is the heliographic code of 
signals. 

Negroes speak no language at all, but bless the Lord 
you can always understand them, especially if you are 
from the South. 

French speak a language composed of one-fourth ges- 
tures, one-fourth facial grimaces, and the other five- 
fourths dynamite. The conversational explosions are 
terrific, but entirely harmless. 

The English own a language, on the same principle 
that a cuckoo or a cow-bird owns a nest. These birds 
lay their eggs in another bird’s nest, and when their 
young is hatched out by the owner of the nest, the 
usurpers throw out the legitimate offspring, and claim 
the property. The English language is filched from 
every nation on earth. The Anglo-Saxon delights in se- 
lecting some real nice-sounding word from some other ' 
nation, using it for a few years, placing it in his dic- 
tionary and laying claim to it by right, of discovery. 

Birds and beasts have a language of their own. No 
other creature dares or even attempts to speak other than 
his own tongue except the American mocking bird. His 
association with English-speaking people has ruptured 
his moral character until he would steal a groan from 
a dying calf. Speaking of mocking birds reminds me 
that I have never been able to understand why any man 
can detect ability or music in one of these screeching, 
ugly little feathered phonographs. There is nothing re- 
markable about them except their ability as forgers. 
They have no songs of their own, and can not carry even 
a stolen tune two minutes without losing it. About the 


152 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


only thing one of these little fussy wretches can do is 
to eat up all the ripe grapes he can find, chase all the 
other little birds off the block (except the English spar- 
rows) and then sit up all night in a tree just over your 
window and screak like an ungreased tricycle. The 
English sparrow is the mustard for the mocking bird. 
When he gets to performing near the nest of one of these 
little scrappers, he goes over and makes him burn the 
wind. The sparrow will not simply permit his young 
fiedgelings to be kept awake night and day by such a 
miserable mimic as a mocking bird. 

Insects, too, have language. The katydid rasps his 
wings, and when he has his call answered, flies away to 
join his lady love in an adjacent bower. The crickets 
call each other from long distances, and even the bull- 
frog’s eyes sparkle, and he goes on the jump when he 
hears the soft soprano answering his deep bass. 

I have made a study of the animal and insect lan- 
guages, and have, by close attention, succeeded in be- 
ing able to understand much of their talk. Professor 
Garner went to Africa to study the monkey language. 
Some years later I met him in Houston, and he pro- 
fessed to understand the monkey language well. In 
order to test him, I introduced him to a populist orator. 
For some time he seemed to understand the knight of 
the green turnip, but finally the orator got on to pol- 
itics, and then the professor threw up his hands. 

Hot long ago I decided to go hunting. Not that I 
had any idea of killing an3rfching of more consequence 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


153 


than a rabbit, but I have to go out and play hunting 
occasionally or have a fit. I walked probably three miles, 
and about 13 o^clock decided to sit down under a hedge, 
eat my dinner, smoke a cigar, and fancy I was enjoying 
myself. 

The sun was shining, for a wonder. The air was as 
soft and balmy as heart could wish, and birds and in- 
sects were having more fun than myself. After eating 
my lunch, and lighting my cigar, I stretched out under 
the shade of the hedge, and watched the white clouds 
drift slowly overhead, and mentally calculated how many 
of these aerial tramps had been formed by the combined 
smokers of the United States. Then I grew business- 
like and tried to figure out how much they cost per 
cloud, and how much interest I owned in the one im- 
mediately overhead. 

Presently I dozed off into the suburbs of dreamland, 
and was just entering the main streets of the city, when 
some one said : ^^Hello, you are late.^^ The words were 
in Spanish, and spoken in a very low, soft tone. I 
turned my head quietly to one side, and it seemed to be 
within a few inches of my ears, so remaining quiet, and 
using all my efforts of concentration, I finally discovered 
that the voice came from a small bug that sat perched 
on the broken stump of a decayed rag weed. 

One glance showed me that it was a full-grown Mex- 
ican boll weevil. A closer look also revealed the fact 
that there were about forty or fifty other boll weevils 
gathered near, some crawling on the groupd, some 
perched on the short, broken weeds, while others could 


164 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


be seen hastening towards the common center from every 
direction. 

Finally about two hundred had gathered, as far as 
I could tell without actual count, and the business be- 
gan. 

‘‘It seems like we have a very small number of dele- 
gates,^^ squeaked the big, fat boll weevil whose voice had 
first attracted my attention. He was sitting on top of 
the rag weed stump, about four inches from the ground, 
with his legs crossed and his bill stuck straight up in 
the air. ^^When I issued the call for this convention, I 
certainly expected more delegates in attendance, but 1 
presume the wet weather has knocked out the greater 
portion of our membership. However, I see before me 
at least one hundred good, strong, hearty boll weevils, 
and with half that force, and an early start, we can 
capture every cotton patch between the Sabine and our 
dear Eio Grande. I propose that we open this meeting 
with prayer to the boll weevil god.” 

At this suggestion every one of them got down on 
their knees, and the leader said : 

^^Oh, most tropical and mighty Devil — thou from 
whose asbestos brain first came the idea for the creation 
of our race — ^send forth thy agents, the cotton buyers, 
throughout this great State, and let them persuade the 
farmer that cotton will sell for 18 cents per pound next 
fall — teach them that it is not money they want, but 
credit, oh, mighty Devil — and that the merchants will 
not sell goods on corn crops, fat hogs, chickens, eggs, or 
butter. Only have them plant all their land in cotton, 
oh, most magnificent Devil — wefil do the rest — and all 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


155 


the cotton will be onrs^ and the praise shall be thine for 
one more year at least. Amen.” As they all arose, one 
of the crowd struck up the song entitled ^^WeTl Have 
Them Where Their Pants Pit Least,” and every boll 
weevil joined in the chorus. 

At the conclusion an attempt was made to take up a 
collection, but as every one in the crowd presented a bill 
against the organization, nothing was collected. 

“I see,” said the chairman, as he picked his teeth with 
his hind leg, ^That there has been quite an interest mani- 
fested by the people in our business. The papers are 
full of it, but as I can not read English, I had to se- 
cure the services of an interpreter. It would make you 
die laughing to hear the learned debates and wise sug- 
gestions that are being made through the press, looking 
to our destruction. The first idea was to poison us. 
The State chief bug buster wasted barrels of chemicals 
and lots of pens, ink and paper, and he never worried 
us in the least. Finally he threw up his hands and 
everything else, and now believes that the only way to 
stop us is to arrest each individual and hit him with a 
tack hammer. I like Mally — ^he is a first-class fellow, 
smarter than half the so-called bug busters, but he wants 
to practice two or three years until he finds out how to 
prevent a certain class of bugs from backing off like a 
dray horse before he tackles the free and uncivilized 
Mexican boll weevil.” Loud applause from the conven- 
tion, with cries of ^‘^Hurrah for Mally” — ^‘Hurrah for 
the back-up bug*^ — ^Wiva la Mexico y Porfirio Diaz” 
— ^^Down with the compresses” — ^^Glod help the cotton 
pickers” — ^^Who fixed Uncle Trav Henderson” — 


156 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


^^Three cheers for Jim Hogg” — ^^Damn Koosevelt and 
his Southern policy” — and several other expressions that 
were drowned in the nproar. 

“It is evident to my mind,” continued the speaker as 
soon as order was restored, “that there is a big work be- 
fore this convention for 1903. Aided by our great Pro- 
tector and his agents, I am sure an enormous cotton 
crop will be planted in Texas, and that means work, and 
lots of it for this summer. Although the continuous 
rains have brought death to millions of our beloved 
friends and relatives, still we are strong enough to make 
Texas cotton patches look like thirty cents at a ten-dol- 
lar show if we only do our duty. By close attention to 
business, the families of the two hundred delegates pres- 
ent ought, by June 1st, to number 900,000,000,000,785 
full grovm, able-bodied boll weevils, and with even this 
small army we ought to clean up our work in Texas by 
fall, and move over into Louisiana, Mississippi, Georgia, 
and Arkansas, and establish agencies. I see that the 
government has appropriated a large sum of money, and 
that the Twenty-eighth Legislature also offers a large re- 
ward for our extermination, but, of course, that does not 
worry any sensible boll weevil so long as the farmers 
plant cotton. If at any time the Texas farmers decide 
to stop planting cotton, why, then the jig is up with us, 
and we will either die, or have to move to some other 
State. That is a contingency, however, that we need not 
fear, for you will always find some fool fellow who could 
not sleep at night unless he planted cotton. If cotton fell 
to 3 cents a pound, and com was worth $9 a bushel, 
plenty of Texas farmers would plant cotton just the 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


157 


same, so there lies our salvation and prosperity. Speak- 
ing of Mally reminds me that — ” 

At this moment I sprang to my feet with a yell. I 
had been lying on my back, and had been so interested 
in the convention that I allowed my cigar to fall from 
my mouth upon my shirt bosom. Fanned by the soft 
breeze the Havana had ignited the cloth, and I never 
noticed it until it had burned through my garments 
and touched the skin. I danced around for a few mo- 
ments until I squeezed out the fire, and thoroughly an- 
gered, I turned to the convention, intending to capture 
and kill every boll weevil in sight and claim the State 
reward, hut to my surprise the delegates had disap- 
peared, and not a hug was in sight. In might have 
been a dream, but it seemed very natural to me. 

^ ^ ^ 

THE CAVERN OF DEATH. 


There was no doubt but that we were lost. For sev- 
eral hours we had treaded narrow valleys, scrambled 
across dangerous gulches, and climbed high mountains, 
and while we were still confident of our ability to find 
our camp, the chances for doing so that day were grow- 
ing abundantly less. 

Gaining the top of a rugged peak, we paused to take 
a view of the surrounding country. What a sight met 
our gaze : on every side stretching away in a panorama, 
peak after peak reared its pinon-covered head towards 
the clouds, while the deep, dark arroyas and gulches 


158 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


wound round their bases like huge black serpents. We 
consulted our pocket compass, and, as usual under such 
circumstances, felt like disputing its statement, for the 
little gilded arrow persisted in pointing in a direction 
which my partner declared was west, while I was equally 
confident it was southeast. 

^^Well, Kay, I suppose the compass is right, but I 
donT believe it,’^ said my friend, as he leaned his big 
45-90 Winchester rifie against a small bush and sat 
down on a huge boulder that seemed ready to topple 
down the steep mountain side. 

"Neither do I believe it,^’ I answered, laughing as I 
seated myself by his side, "but the testimony is against 
us, and we must abide the consequences.^^ 

We were hunting and prospecting in the Davis moun- 
tains, northwest of Fort Davis, Texas, and had left our 
camp at daylight and started on a still hunt for black- 
tailed deer. When we left the camp the sky was clear 
and the air was crispy and cold, but shortly after sun- 
rise dark clouds began gathering in the northwest, and 
soon overspread the heavens, while occasionally the low 
mutterings of distant thunder could be heard. 

It was little we reckoned of sunshine or shadow. We 
had not gone a mile before we killed an enormous buck, 
and hung him high up in a juniper tree, out of reach of 
coyotes that infested this territory. After this first 
spurt of fortune, our luck apparently deserted us, and 
although we , sighted several bunches of the big-eared 
beauties, they always succeeded in eluding us, and went 
bouncing stiff-legged around the mountain sides, before 
we could approach within sure range, though we con- 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


159 


soled ourselves by sending several of the big express bul- 
lets whistling after them. About 12 o’clock we decided 
to return to our camp, when we discovered that we were 
lost, as described in the beginning of this story. 

Neither of us had the remotest idea of the direction in 
which to start, and for ten minutes we sat and gazed 
helplesly over the beautiful scene spread out before our 
unappreciative eyes, vainly endeavoring to discover some 
familiar landmark to guide us toward our cozy retreat 
in the canon. Our search was in vain, for on either 
hand the country looked strange and unfamiliar. 

Our watches denoted that there were only about two 
hours of daylight remaining, so we were compelled to 
make an effort to discover our camp, or settle down to 
the alternative of spending the liight in the open air. 
The latter was not a very desirable prospect to contem- 
plate, for the clouds had been growing heavier all the 
evening, the air was becoming colder, while far over 
northward the sound of thunder gave evidence of a com- 
ing storm. We thought, with regret, of our snug little 
herder’s tent pitched under the tall sheltering cliffs in 
the canon, and pined for our warm, cozy blankets and 
the pot of steaming coffee we knew our faithful negro 
servant had ready for us. 

^^Well, Kay, let’s be moving on. The camp will not 
come to Mahomet, so let Mahomet pull out for the camp. 
Now, which way shall we make the break?” 

Of course, I was not in condition to offer any very 
valuable information, but after a few minutes’ discus- 
sion, we decided to accept the testimony of the compass, 
and go in a southwesterly direction. Then began the 


1 


160 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


tiresome routine of walking and sliding down steep 
mountains, clambering across deep, rocky gulches, and 
toiling up the next succeeding hill. 

Mght came on rapidly; we were tired and hungry, 
and our chagrin and disappointment found vent in lan- 
guage much more emphatic than polite. 

^‘We are in for it, old boy,” growled my companion, 
pausing a moment to catch his breath, which had been 
jolted out of him by sliding down a steep, gravely bank, 
and landing astraddle a huge juniper stump at the bot- 
tom of the gulch. am so hungry I could eat the 
skirts off a Mexican saddle, and there isnT a ghost of 
a show to reach camp tonight. I wish I had shot that 
coyote back yonder and tried a piece of his lean, lank 
flesh for supper. It would have prevented him from 
ultimately starving to death and probably saved me from 
the same fate.” I saw he was rather blue over the pros- 
pects, so I replied: 

^^Cheer up, partner. We have staid out many a worse 
night than this and sang dismal songs to a herd of rest- 
less cattle that were trying their best to discover some 
excuse for stampeding. We can find shelter under 
some cliff, build a roaring fire and do charmingly until 
morning. Then our real trouble will begin anew, for I 
havenT the slightest idea where we are. Let’s take an- 
other squint at that miserable little compass and see if 
it has decided to stop lying.” My friend searched in 
one of his pockets for the compass, then tried another, 
and another, and finally blurted out: 

"T’ll be blowed if I haven’t lost the measly thing. 
I’m sure I put it in this pocket, but it is gone. Now 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


161 


we are in for it.” His words were too true, for he had 
lost the compass, which only added to onr unpleasant 
predicament, especially as the weather bid fair to con- 
tinue cloudy for several days at least. It was useless 
to encumber the atmosphere with strong expletives and 
vain regrets, so we began to look around for some place 
in which to spend the next twelve hours. 

The hill tops were still light, but down in the deep 
gulch darkness was fast settling. We were in a very 
narrow and rocky canon, so we pushed on up it’s water 
worn bed and soon reached an overhanging cliff be- 
neath whose shelter we decided to spend the night. On 
approaching the spot we discovered the mouth of a 
large cavern. It was almost concealed by a growth of 
brush, but we soon opened up a path with our heavy 
hunting knives and quickly had a brilliant fire burning 
in the entrance of the cave. 

We collected a lot of dry pine and juniper wood so 
as to keep up our fire, and sat down to rest. My friend 
was still inclined to grumble and bewail his bad luck, 
but after I had produced a small fiask which I had con- 
cealed about my person, and several cold biscuits and 
some raw bacon from the mysterious depths of my pock- 
ets, his face became wreathed in smiles and he soon 
forgot his woes in the enjoyment of the frugal meal. 
He invoked all manner of blessings- upon my head for 
my forethought in coming out prepared for such an 
emergency. In fact I had learned from sad experience 
that a camp in the mountains is easier to lose than to 
find again, and I never go forth for a day’s hunt with- 
out carrying with me a small quantity, at least, of the 
necessaries of life. 


162 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


After eating onr supper we prepared some pine 
torches and decided to explore the cavern at whose 
mouth we were encamped, just to see, as my friend ex- 
pressed it, ^Vhat sort of a hole we were in.” 

We soon discovered that the cavern had formerly been 
the outlet for an underground stream of considerable 
magnitude, long since gone dry, or changed from its 
course into another channel. This discovery was no 
surprise to us, as the country abounds in caves and cav- 
erns, some of them of vast size and length. After going 
about one hundred feet into the mountain, we saw the 
entrance to another cavern on our right, and leaving 
the main old water course we climbed up on the ledge 
to take a peep into this new find. 

The mouth of this cave was at least fifteen feet above 
the bottom of the main cavern. As we entered it, and 
fiashed our torches above our heads, we saw that we 
were in an enormous chamber, for the walls were not 
visible on either side. From the roof overhead long, 
glittering stalactites hung like icicles. We stood a mo- 
ment gazing into the darkness, and holding our torches 
high over our heads. I remember distinctly that a feel- 
ing of awe and dread seemed to be taking possession 
of me, and I was just on the point of suggesting a 
retreat to the open air when my friend, who was a 
trifie in advance suddenly seized my arm and exclaimed 
in a hoarse whisper: ' 

“Great Scott ! Did you see that ?” 

“See what?” I asked nervously. 

“That light. Why, I saw it as distinctly as I ever 
s^w the sun. There it is— see, see !” 

Then I saw a sight that caused my hair to begin that 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


163 


peculiar creepy sensation which some people contend 
is an evidence of fright. I canT say that I was fright- 
ened, but candor compels me to state that I was dis- 
tressingly uncomfortable. Not knowing what else to 
do, I remembered my old standby in time of danger, 
and quickly drew from my belt one of those long-bar- 
relled 45-caliber inventions of Mr. Colt, so popular in 
the West. 

The light appeared to be moving slowly along the 
cavern, pausing occasionally and moving up and down 
as though carried by some human being. It was not 
a flame, but resembled more a huge ball of phosphorus. 
All sorts of wild theories went surging through my 
brain. I thought first of counterfeiters, of moonshin- 
ers, then of will-o^-the-wisps caused by impure air, and 
finally of ghosts and hobgoblins. All at once the light 
seemed to pass around an angle of the cavern and dis- 
appeared. 

^‘Well, Ifil be everlastingly smashed if that ain’t a 
corker,” said my companion as we held our lights up 
and looked at each other’s face. 

I never knew a more fearless man than that com- 
panion of mine, but as I looked into his clear blue eyes 
I saw he was excited and nervous. For ten minutes 
we stood and conversed in low tones. The longer we 
talked the calmer we grew. While we were unable to 
account for the queer phenomenon, we did not doubt an 
investigation would clear up the mystery. As we stood 
talking and peering into the surrounding gloom, the 
strange light suddenly appeared again, and without 
moving an inch we stood and watched it repeat its 


164 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


former movements, finally disappearing at the same turn 
or bend of the cavern. 

“AVhat shall we do?^’ I asked holding up my torch 
and looking into my friend^s face. I was in hopes he 
would suggest a retreat to the open air, but his expres- 
sion had changed, and I saw that cold glitter creeping 
into his eyes that I had first noticed two years before 
when a big bully from Eagle Pass had attempted to 
insult us at a hotel in El Paso. 

“We are going after it,’^ said my friend firmly, “for 
I would never be satisfied to leave without making an 
effort at least to solve the mystery.^^ 

That settled it. I would have followed my partner 
in any emergency, though, to be honest, I did not long 
to make any further investigations. We started care- 
fully forward and soon reached the spot where the 
strange light had last been seen. Here the cavern made 
an abrupt turn to the left, and was very narrow, the 
entrance to this portion being low, and not over fifteen 
feet wide. We entered a circular chamber, and were 
moving slowly forward over the rough floor, when my 
companion, who was slightly in advance, suddenly 
threw up his hands with a motion of horror and ex- 
claimed : “Oh my God, look there !” 

Then I saw the cause of his actions, and at the first 
glance my torch fell from my nerveless hands, and I 
felt the cold perspiration \starting out upon my fore- 
head. It was only by a superhuman effort that I re- 
frained from turning and flying from the spot. 

For a moment we stood and gazed with horror at 
the grewsome scene. Within that small chamber, which 
seemed to be the termination of the cavern, lay the 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


165 


ghastly skeletons of a large number of human beings. 
Soon we grew bolder and went forward to examine the 
remains. We counted thirty-four skeletons, all adults, 
in that narrow room. They were lying in all sorts of 
positions upon the stony floor of the cavern, some 
stretched at full length, some sitting upright against 
the walls, while two were locked in an embrace, as 
though death had not been able to separate them. 

Scattered over the rocky floor we found numerous iron 
or steel implements, almost destroyed by rust. There 
were picks, shovels, spear heads, pike heads, short 
swords, knives and crowbars. In a niche of the cavern 
we found a brass or copper tube about ten inches long 
and three inches in diameter. It was made on the tele- 
scope plan and was cankered with verdigris and mould. 

Still another discovery awaited us, that not only filled < 
us with astonishment, but caused us to utterly forget 
the dreadful surroundings. In a corner was a pile of 
something resembling small gravel or dirt, and we 
stooped to examine it. The next moment we sprang to 
our feet, held our torches close to our faces and each 
whispered simultaneously, ^^GOLD.^^ 

There was no mistaking that pile of nuggets and dust 
heaped two feet high along the rocky wall. It had 
probably been in sacks originally, but the cloth or skins 
had entirely disappeared, leaving the precious ore to 
rest in a heap upon the stone floor. All feelings of ter- 
ror or fright seemed to have left us. We squatted down 
on the floor of the cavern and hefted the precious treas- 
ure, and chuckled and laughed like drunken men over 
their cups. 

How long we remained I do not know, perhaps one 


366 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


hour, perhaps four — never moving from where we/ had 
knelt on the floor — laughing hysterically at senseless' 
remarks, and giving no thought to time or conditions. 
Gigantic plans for future pleasure began to form in 
our minds, as we fingered the heavy metal in ghoulish 
glee. Then we grew cunning, and cautious, and spoke 
in whispers, casting suspicious glances at those white, 
grinning skeletons, as though we feared they might di- 
vulge our secert. 

Finally we decided to go. We took a few of the 
larger nuggets with us, and also one of the spear heads. 
On reaching the open air we rebuilt our smouldering 
fire, and waited for daylight. We never dreamed of go- 
ing to sleep, but sat and smoked and planned how we 
would come again and carry away our new found treas- 
ure. 

Daylight came gloomy, cold, and drizzly. We climbed 
the adjacent mountain. to take observations. On either 
hand still stretched away that exasperating array of 
peaks and gulches, each looking precisely like the other. 
With pencil and paper we made a rude map of the 
place and then started on our weary journey. 
We were ravenously hungry and soon shot a deer, ap- 
peasing ^ our appetites on roasted ribs, sans salt, sans 
bread. Then we pushed forward in search of our camp. 

Why relate that dreadful experience, or tell how we 
finally came across a sheep herder six days later, who 
gave us the cheerful information that we were near 
the Pecos river and forty miles from our camp? He 
gave us a certain mountain peak as a landmark, and 
two days later we staggered into our camp, to find our 
negro servant almost distracted with fear over our long 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


167 


absence. He was just on the point of leaving for Ft. 
Davis, to enlist the aid of the people there to hnnt for 
us. 

We rested two days and then began our search for 
our hidden treasure. Days, weeks, aye months, we 
toiled and searched in vain. Then we returned to San 
Antonio determined to renew the hunt the next sum- 
mer. In the brass or copper tube before mentioned we 
found an old paper or parchment, yellow with age and 
closely written in Spanish. The following is a liberal 
translation : 

In the name of the Holy Virgin, amen : Thirty-three 
of my companions and slaves are engulfed in Spectre 
cavern, about forty leagues southwest of Agua Grande 
canon, and twenty leagues east of La Muerte Arroya. 
We entered the mountain by the rift in the rock, which 
is on the west side, and found much gold. We saw 
a strange light, but it went away and for nineteen days 
we gathered a great quantity of ore. Then the light 
came back, and the earth shook, and the crash came, 
and the outlet was closed. We explored the other end 
of the cavern, but it is shut in by a roaring river which 
seems to pour into the bowels of the earth. The air is 
muy malo (very bad) and we knew we must soon perish 
unless the Holy Virgin shall save us. Should any man 
enter this cavern, let ^ him beware of the strange light, 
and not blaspheme, as did Pedro Ferrando, whom we 
believe has brought this evil upon us. Our home is at 
Mission Nacogdoches near the Eio Neches. May the 
Holy Virgin come to our aid. Adios. 

(Signed) Don. Santiago Michelli. 
December 23, 1756. 


168 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


Many years have passed since my friend and I stood 
in that horrible cavern of death, and saw the mysterious 
light flit away in the distant darkness. Neither of us 
have ever given up the hope of ultimately flnding the 
mouth of the cavern, though all our efforts so far have 
been unsuccessful. 

One coincidence connected with the case is the fact 
that among the old archives of Mission Nacogdoches, 
which are in the City of Mexico, appears this reference : 

^^October 2, 1756. Don Santiago Michelli starts to- 
day accompanied by thirty-flve retainers in search of 
Golden Cavern, which the Indians say is guarded by 
devils and is situated in the far west, near the Kio 
Pecos.” 

^ ^ ^ 

A PROHIBITIONIST BULL DOG. 


"A horse hates a drunken man,” says an old states- 
man, but a dog seems to feel that a drunkard isnT re- 
sponsible for himself and acts accordingly. A dog, no 
matter how flerce he is, will never bite a drunken man. 
He seems to know by instinct when a man is under the 
weather, and treats him as he would a child. A horse 
treats a drunken man v/ith contempt — doesn’t want to 
have anything to do with him . — Cherokee Chief. 

Thus evidencing after all that the dog is man’s best 
friend . — Austin Statesman. 

And speaking volumes for horse sense. — Nacog- 
doches Sentinel. 

That’s where you boys don’t understand dogs. I 
own a bull dog. His name is Patrick Yanlandingham 


K. Lamity's Texas Tales. 


169 


O’Connor Bonner. I mention the name not necessarily 
for publication, but as an evidence that he will bite 
anything on earth that breathes, moves, and has its be- 
ing. 

Pat is a prohibitionist. He likes to catch a man 
with a jag, throw him down, show his teeth and remon- 
strate with him about drinking booze when it is straight. 
He won’t hurt them much, but seems to enjoy their 
yells for assistance. Consequently, when I take a drink, 
I always manage to get in home before dark. Some 
dogs may be like women, learn to love and respect a 
drunken man, but Patrick Vandlandingham O’Connor 
Bonner refuses positively to allow a drunken man to 
stagger around in his back yard. Looking at the mat- 
ter in ten or twelve different lights, I can not find it in 
my heart to blame Pat very much. 

I will state incidentally that I have been offered fab- 
ulous sums for Pat by some very prominent married 
ladies in Austin, Houston, Galveston, Dallas, San An- 
tonio, Beaumont and Tyler, but my wife would not 
think of parting with him. She says if Pat was sold, 
it would be almost the same thing as losing me. 

^ ^ 

SQUELCHING THE LIQUOR TRAFFIC. 


A subscriber who does not live over 786 miles from 
Austin has sent me the following letter : 

subscribed for you paper, and paid for it. The 
only reason I have for discontinuing the Harpoon is 
because I see you are advertising saloons and beer brew- 


170 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


eries, and 'I can not aid in supporting any institution 
or business that indorses the damnable liquor traffic.^^ 

I would add the name of the writer, who is a well 
known business man, but that would cause some peo- 
ple to think that I had gone back on the motto of the 
Haepoon. I have, however, mailed him a letter of 
thanks, returning him the one dollar paid for subscrip- 
tion, and erased his name from the list. I will also 
mail him a marked copy of this issue^ just to give him 
an idea of my opinion of such characters. 

To begin with, I will acknowledge that I take ad- 
vertisements from saloons and ‘^T)eer breweries.^’ If 
there were any other kind of breweries in the country 
I would also take advertisements from them. An editor 
is not supposed to indorse everything an advertiser states. 
Any man with as much sense as a grub worm ought to 
know this. One good reason why I take advertisements 
from men who engage in the manufacture and sale of 
liquors is because they never fail to pay their bills 
promptly. That is at least one point in their favor. 

Now, my dear old cranky friend, let me reason with 
you a moment about this matter. Of course it is dif- 
ficult to reason with a man whose eyes are so close to- 
gether that they chafe each other when he winks, but 
I am going to try it. You are in business. YTien a 
saloon man comes into your store and asks for anything 
from a yard of calico to a pound of bacon, do you sell 
it to him and take his money, or do you tell him you 
can not ^^aid in supporting any institution that indorses 
the damnable liquor traffic ?” Of course you sell it to 
him, but in doing so, does that act denote that you are 
indorsing his line of business? No person with half 


K. Lamitt^s Texas Tales. 


171 


as much sense as a grasshopper will contend that you 
are favoring the sale of intoxicating liquors because 
you sell a saloon man a sack of flour. Then why should 
you jump at the conclusion that I am favoring saloons 
because I sell a saloon keeper advertising space in the 
Harpoon ? 

The trouble with your breed of cattle is the fact that 
their heads are not shaped right. You are too narrow 
all over, especially between the eyes. You are selflsh, 
egotistical, and think you are smart, when in fact your 
intelligence will not begin to compare with that of an 
educated chimpanzee. 

Another mistake you make is in fancying you are 
following in the footsteps of the meek and lowly Yaza- 
rene Carpenter when you vent your petty childish spite 
on your fellow men. If you call that religion, I tell 
you that hell is full of just such religion. That coun- 
try is chock full of spite, hate, malice, conceit, selflsh- 
ness and inhumanity. That is why the place was cre- 
ated. There are no fools in hell, how-ever, so you still 
have a fighting chance for heaven. 

I never have indorsed the liquor traffic. At an early 
age I got down on the business, and in hopes of saving 
other people, I tried to drink it all up, but I soon found 
out that the barkeeper kept running in fresh stock on 
me, and I got mad and quit. Liquor drinking to excess 
is bad for any sensible man, though I believe a barrel 
or two would do you good. It would probably loosen 
your old driedup hide, and possibly broaden your ideas, 
if you ever have any. 

Eemember I am not kicking because you discontin- 
ued the paper. Why, God bless you, dear five-karat 


172 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


soul, the paper was never intended for such people. If 
it was I would try to push the circulation in the lunatic 
asylums. I want men to read the HARPOO]sr whose 
heads are not shaped like a wedge with the big end 
down. I want readers who are sensible, conscientious 
men, who love humanity because they themselves are 
human — who love God because God loves them. I donT 
want a lot of narrow minded, selfish, mental misfits who 
labor under the impression that Atlas has quit work and 
turned the job over to them. 

I don’t want you to get mad at me just because you 
don’t indorse the liquor traffic. I don’t care whether 
you take the paper or not, but I like you very much, 
and want you to call again to see me, and we will dis- 
cuss the evils of intemperance and possibly I may be 
able to help you out. As a matter of fact, I believe I 
can give you some pointers whereby you may induce 
some one very near and dear to you to adopt my scheme 
for keeping sober — ^keeping out of saloons. 

I know the thorn in your side. I know where the 
shoe hurts, but, my dear friend, had you attended in 
time to your own domestic affairs with the same vigor 
and enthusiasm that you are now attempting to meddle 
with other people’s affairs, you would have had no per- 
sonal reason for your war on saloons. Even at this late 
hour a barrel stave properly applied would undoubtedly 
have a great moral effect in remedying your former neg- 
ligence. 

Don’t fail to call on me when you need advice or 
aid in squelching the liquor traffic. I am doing all I 
can to get all the money possible from the liquor sel- 
lers, and in that way I may succeed in running them ^ 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


1T3 


out of business. If I break them they will have to stop, 
but somehow or other they have a wonderful way of re- 
cuperating. 

As this is the last Harpoon you will get I want you 
to preserve it, so in the future when you feel gay, you 
can read it over and see what a colossal jackass an 
old man can make out of himself when he really tries 



J ufit such old mental mummies as you make me tired. 
Hot all over, but a portion of my anatomy. I don’t 
get angry at them, just weary, and then I sit down to 
rest, and wonder how it is that one man can ever con- 
ceive the idea that he should pass his life in trying to 
cause some other poor, struggling human being trouble 
and distress. Why don’t you get out and see if you can 
not shovel sunshine instead of throwing brickbats ? 
Why not try to raise a big crop of smiles on a field 
of frowns ? It is a better crop and just as easy to culti- 
vate. 

Take my advice — not my paper — and see if you can 
not hustle around over the world and find joy, peace 
and love, instead of the opposite. There is lots of pleas- 
ure here for you if you will only love God and your 
neighbors. It’s dead easy to be happy if you wish. 


^ ^ jx 


A VERY PITIABLE CASE. 


Hot long ago I. saw a countryman, a regular Hill- 
Billy from the mountains^ drive in town with a small 
load of dry cedar stove wood on a wagon, drawn by a 
pair of very small and very poor ponies. By his side 


174 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


sat a little boy, about twelve years old. The man was 
poorly clad, and so was the boy. They both looked 
like they needed a square meal, and there was that 
nervous, anxious, longing look in their eyes so common 
to the sons and daughters of Poverty, who pass their 
lives in a desperate struggle for their daily bread. 

I have always sympathized with the poor. I have 
always been rich, or at least felt that way, and have never 
yet seen the day I could not draw a check for $50,000. 
I will add, however, that I have never yet drawn one of 
these checks which I would not be willing to cash in 
for $2.50. This latter proposition, however, cuts no 
ice so far as my ability is concerned to draw said check 
or checks. I was thrown among poor people at a tender 
age, and have never fully recovered, so when I saw this 
poor Hill-Billy, I naturally felt sorry for him and his 
child, and, had I known where I could have raised about 
$3 in cash, I would have divided it with him. 

The man drove slowly along Congress avenue, look- 
ing at every man in sight on either side of the street, 
and occasionally asking in a half-hearted manner, 
“Want a good load of wood, sir?’^ but no one paid the 
least bit of attention to him. 

This was about 10 o’clock in the morning, and I 
soon lost sight of the man and boy, hoping in my heart 
the poor fellow would sell his little load of wood, and 
get $10 for it. In the evening about 3 o’clock I passed 
the court house corner where wood wagons commonly 
locate, and there was the same man and the same 
hungry looking little boy sitting on the same wagon. 
I supposed they lived near town and had sold out and 
brought in a second load of wood. 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


175 


‘^Want a good load of wood, sir?” asked the man in 
a hopeless manner of a gentleman passing. The pass- 
er-by stopped, examined the wood and asked the price. 

^Ws worth $2, sir, for I have hauled it fifteen miles, 
bnt Ifil take $1.50, sir. I wish yon would buy it, for 
I need the money very much, and have to go back home 
tonight. IVe got a little girl sick at home, sir, and — 

^“^Oh well, I canT help that. We all have our 
troubles,” answered the prospective buyer, generally 
tell mine to the police. But if you want $1 for the 
wood, all right, and if not, no harm done. There now — 
you neednT argue the matter — I^m in a hurry — time is 
money to me — ^if you want the dollar, say so.” 

The man hesitated, looked at the wood, looked at the 
half starved team, looked at the little hoy crouching in 
a timid manner, then at the descending sun, and said : 

^^All right, sir — ^but it donT even pay for the hauling, 
much less the cutting of the wood. If I wasn’t in such 
a fearful fix, I’d never sell it for that price.”' 

I turned away heartsick. I did not have any blame 
for the man who bought the wood. So far as I knew, 
the dollar he offered was all he had. I pitied the wood 
hauler, and in fancy could see a little pale faced baby 
girl in a dark little cabin. I could see the mother, a 
thinly clad, hopeless-looking woman, sitting by the rude 
bed, trying to soothe the little sufferer, and occasionally 
listening for the rattle of the wagon wheels that would 
announce the return of , the husband. How I pitied 
them. 

Half an hour later I ran across the wagon down on 
Sixth street. The boy was sitting upon the spring seat 


176 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


sucking a stick of striped candy as big as a hoe handle, 
and looked as happy a^ a lark. In a few moments the 
man came out of a saloon. His step was as light as a 
young girFs, and he was smoking a cheroot for all it 
could produce. 

^^Sold your wood?’^ I asked. 

^^Betcher life I did.^^ 

^‘’Get the medicine for your little sick girl?’^ I asked 
again. 

^^Sick girl? Hell, I ain’t got no more gal than a 
cotton tail rabbit. You see there ain’t none of us but 
me and the old woman and Rushington. That’s Rush- 
ington out there licking that barber pole candy. We 
don’t make much money, me and Rushington, but you 
just bet we have the best time on earth. When we 
come to town, he takes a little candy and I take a little 
liquor, and then we both get rich and go home. I have 
plenty of meat and bread at home, and these little wood 
excursions are only in order for me and Rushington to 
speculate. You see, mister, it takes powerful little to 
make a man happy in this world unless he is a hog and 
wants it all. Well, so long — if you ever come up my 
way come right in and stay all night. We’ll treat you 
white.” 

It wasn’t two hours after that when I heard a man 
worth $20,000 cursing and swearing that the country 
was going to financial ruin, and that it was no use for 
a man to try to keep from starving to death in Texas. 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


ITT 


ADVENTURES WITH A BURGLAR. 


Major Swybeer sat back in his chair and laughed 
immoderately, while his wife stood timidly rubbing her 
hands together, and apparently undecided whether to 
join in the laugh or to cry. Evidently she would have 
preferred to cry — most women do — ^but she finally over- 
came her natural inclination and joined in the laugh. 

Mrs. Swybeer was a pretty little woman, with a timid, 
childish manner^ and spent about half of her time griev- 
ing and worrying over some imaginary harm that she 
fancied might happen to her husband. When they were 
married the major was 40 years old, and pretty Nellie 
Granger was 18. Ten years had passed away like a 
dream, and their married life had been a happy one. 
The major was a very large, a very fat, and a very 
good natured man. He was rather brusque in his man- 
ner, and considered pretty rough in his dealings with 
his fellow man, but at home he was a most loving, a 
most dutiful and affectionate husband. 

It is true that Major Swybeer delighted to tease his 
pretty little wife, but she rather liked it. They had 
never been separated a day since their marriage, and 
now she decided to visit her parents for a month, and 
the major would be left alone, so she began to conjure 
up all sorts of accidents and misfortunes that might be- 
fall that rather robust masculine fairy during her ab- 
sence. She had just made a remark about the burglars 
coming and murdering him, which had caused the 
merriment referred to in the beginning of this story. 


178 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


^^But you will be so lonesome without me, wonT you, 
major?” She always called him major. Before their 
marriage she had fancied the word ^^major’^ conveyed 
some sort of military importance, and she kept it up 
afterwards. She had never made any inquiries as to 
how he acquired his title, and it was well she did not; 
no living human being knew that fact, not even the 
major himself. The truth of the matter was, he had 
been called ^%ajor” ever since he could remember, and 
by degrees had contracted a sort of dim, hazy idea that 
he was justly entitled to his sobriquet. 

When his wife had remarked that he would feel lone- 
some, the rnajor said: ^^Of course I will, my dear; of 
course I will; but we can not expect to go through this 
life without enduring some unpleasant things.” 

^^But just think if those burglars were to come and 
steal all the silver, and — and — murder you.” And 
Mrs. Swybeer’s face grew long and pale. 

^^Oh, never fear about that, my dear,” replied the 
major. have my revolver, you know, and it would 
be very dangerous for any burglar to dare to enter these 
premises.” 

The major leaned back, placed his thumbs in the 
armholes of his vest, and looked very warlike to his 
timid little wife, though he was inwardly endeavoring 
to remember where he had put his revolver, and also 
mentally trying to determine whether it would be safest 
to fire on the burglar or let the burglar fire on him. 

The major was not accustomed to handling firearms. 
In fact, he had never fired a gun but once in his life, 
and that was done accidentally. As usual, under the. 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 179 

circumstances, the bullet had hit a man who was pass- 
ing along the street and wounded him very seriously. 
He finally recovered, and the major, in referring to the 
matter in after years, always led his hearers to fancy 
there had been a row, using some such remark as “an 
unfortunate affair in which I seriously shot a man, 
though God knows I was glad afterwards that I did n('‘t 
kill him.” 

It grieves me to state that the major was* inwardly 
glad his wife was going to be absent for a short time. 
Prior to his marriage he had been a reglar Bohemian, 
and his habits corresponded with that erratic tribe, and 
he felt the old spirit coming over him, and smiled as 
he contemplated the astonishment of the old fellows on 
seeing him walk into the billiard parlors of the Boozee 
Club. Just as all good men do, the major, on marry- 
ing, had promised himself and wife to be a model hus- 
band, give up all the bachelor amusements, stay home 
every night, and leave off drinking his early morning 
cocktail. He proved to be one of those rare *human 
freaks who actually kept his promise. 

When he married, his old companions had prophesied 
that the major would not be at the club any more for 
two months, maybe three, after which time he would, 
of course, return to the fold. But three months passed, 
a year, then another, and still there was a large vacant 
chair in that circle of convivial spirits, and now, when 
ten long years had fled into the eternal past, they 
mourned him as one forever lost — “an erring brother 
stranded upon the bleak, barren shores of matrimony,” 
as one of the members said in referring to the matter. 


180 K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 

The only reason they knew he was alive was by the sec- 
retary receiving each month the major’s dues as a mem- 
ber of the Boozee Club, which he kept up as usual. 

^^But won’t you be frightened at night by yourself 
and perfectly alone?” gasped poor little fluttering Mrs. 
Swybeer as, seated on her husband’s very ample knees, 
she looked very anxiously into his broad, good-humored 
face. 

^^Tut, tut, Nellie; you certainly forget that I am an 
old soldier,” replied the major, forgetting the fact that 
he had never been connected with any military organ- 
ization, and couldn’t tell the difference between the 
sound of a dinner horn and a call to arms. ^^Why, of 
course, I will not be frightened. I am in my own house, 
my castle, so to speak, and will defend it against any 
number of the enemy, even to the last drop of blood in 
my veins.” 

At the bare mention of the word ^^blood,” poor Mrs. 
Swybeer gave a scream and cuddled down in his arms, 
while the major gallantly held the frightened little 
woman close to his manly bosom, soothing her fears, and 
at the same time glancing nervously around, to satisfy 
himself that none of the enemy were within striking 
distance. He finally convinced her that he would be 
safe and sound, and in two hours they were on their 
way to the depot, while a baggage wagon might be seen 
driving from the Swybeer residence, carrying such an 
array of trunks, valises, and boxes that the neighbors 
decided that the family was moving out. 

At last the pretty little woman was on board, had 
lost and found her ticket three times, and now had it 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


181 


concealed about her person so adroitly that no pick- 
pocket would have the impudence to touch it, although 
it would be extremely embarrassing to produce it, with 
a big, burly conductor standing right in front of her. 
She hugged and kissed the major to suffocation, cried 
a little, and called him back so often for parting em- 
braces that the train was in motion before he escaped 
and made a waddling dash for the door. Jumping off, 
he managed to turn a most ungraceful handspring on 
the sidewalk to the intense delight of a gang of small 
newsboys, who always have the luck to be on hand when a 
gentleman makes an unintentional exhibition of himself. 
The major scrambled to his feet, brushed the dust from 
his clothes, straightened out his hat, which had been 
mashed into an unrecognizable mass, and, calling a car- 
riage, started for home, after bestowing a very warm 
blessing on the gang of young hoodlums who had wit- 
nessed his fall. The boys showed their appreciation of 
the major’s talk by very loud laughter and cries of 
^^Whoop ’em up, fatty ! Where did you mash that hat ?” 

The major drove home, changed his clothes, and at 
3 o’clock walked into the billiard parlor of the Boozee 
Club, and was greeted by a shout from the half dozen 
members present. The lost boy had returned, the 
prodigal was at the old home, and a messenger was 
dispatched in haste to notify the absent members of the 
club, and by 5 o’clock every man was present, and the 
celebration was in full blast. Ah! the joy, the ecstacy 
of again mingling with the friends of our boyhood after 
long years of separation ! It causes the sluggish blood 
of age to rush through the veins with youthful vigor. 


182 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


and brings back the dreams of former years, when our 
lives were a sweet vision of expectant bliss. 

When she had left home, the major had told his wife 
that her absence would not necessarily interfere with 
his fixed habits, that he would eat supper down town, 
come home at the usual hour, and after enjoying his 
customary cigar, would retire for the night. In fact, 
he really intended to do this, but — 

‘^The best laid plans of mice and men 
Gang aft aglee;^’ 

and before the major knew it he was right in the cur- 
rent, so to speak, and it was after 12 o’clock at night, 
the club was still in session, with no signs of immediate 
adjournment. 

I sincerely trust that no word has been written that 
would induce the reader to think that the members of 
the Boozee Club were in the habit of getting under the 
infiuence of liquor. Perish the idea. In fact, they 
only indulged in such harmless beverages as wines, milk 
punches, long, thin toddies, straight whiskies, etc., and 
any of them would have testified to the extreme sobriety 
of the entire organization. It was long after 12 o’clock 
when the major suddenly remembered his promise to 
his wife, and while the porter was bringing his coat and 
hat from the cloak room some member proposed just 
'^one more thin one, in honor of the return of the prodi- 
gal,” and they all took it straight. 

To be perfectly truthful about the matter (and God 
forbid that I ever should) it must be stated that the 
major had more than plenty before this last drink. 
He poured it in, however, and figuratively speaking. 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 183 

it was the 'Tlow that killed the fatted calf.” He left 
the eulb rooms and decided to walk home, well know- 
ing* that exercise was far better for him than to remain 
quiet. He started along the well lighted streets, and 
as very few pedestrians were abroad at that hour, he 
fortunately had plenty of sidewalk. He had his deadly 
revolver in his coat pocket, and as he steered and tacked 
along the wobbly streets he remembered his wife^s child- 
ish fears about burglars, and chuckled to himself as he 
thought of the surprise party he would spring on any 
helpless burglar who was so unfortunate as to enter his 
premises. 

^^My housh ish my cashel,” quoted the major, "and 
burglars better sthay outshide my premishes.” And 
he waddled on, muttering to himself, and fumbling the 
revolver in his pocket. At last he reached his gate, and 
stopping, took a careful survey of the surrounding prop- 
erty so as to guard against mistakes. 

"Zish ish my housh — 1^11 schwear it ish,” muttered the 
major, boldly entering the gate and letting it swing to- 
gether with a bang. The clang of the gate startled him, 
and he suddenly whirled around, drawing his revolver, 
but smiled to himself, and putting it back in his coat 
pocket, began tip-toeing towards the house as though 
he was afraid of being seen entering his own residence. 

"Glad Hellie ishnT home,” soliloquized the major as 
he reached the gallery steps and paused to listen. Every- 
thing was still and quiet as the grave, except a miserable 
little cricket under the door steps, which kept up an un- 
canny rasping sound. For fully five minutes the major 
stood perfectly quiet, with his revolver grasped firmly 
in his hand. 


184 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


^‘Bet I\e losht my key,” he muttered, fumbling in 
his pocket. The key was the first thing he fished out, 
but he overlooked the bet, keeping up the search, finally 
discovering the elusive article in his hand. Then he 
started boldly up the steps, but the loud sound of his 
feet upon the gallery fioor sent a nervous thrill through 
his body and caused him to make another stop at the 
entrance. After waiting a few minutes, he cautiously 
inserted the key and slowly unlocked the door. As it 
turned on its hinges it gave out a soft creaking sound, 
and the major suddenly shoved it violently open and, 
presenting his pistol, exclaimed, “Handsh up !” to some 
imaginary enemy whom he seemed to be expecting was 
waiting for his arrival on the inside. 

The enemy failed to materialize, and after a moment^s 
waiting he walked boldly in, keeping the revolver ready 
for action. His wife had kept talking about robbers and 
murderers until the major had began to expect them, and 
had determined to die game. A little French clock in 
the hall suddenly struck 2, and the major whirled 
around and presented his pistol in the direction of the 
sound. Then the canary bird in its hanging cage gave a 
fiutter, and was instantly covered with the deadly 
weapon of destruction. 

— d if I don’t schoot schomesching d’rectly,” mut- 
tered the major as he crept slowly down the hall, which 
was dimly lighted from the refiection of the street lamps. 

He had just reached the point where the hallway made 
a turn to the parlor entrance when the long-expected 
happened, and a man suddenly confronted him. It was 
the work of an instant; the major saw the man; saw 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


185 


him raise his pistol — but the major was equally swift — 
there was a double flash, a deafening report, and the 
major fell heavily to the floor, uttering a yell of agony. 
He was on his feet in an instant, and en route for the 
front door at break-neck speed. He still had the re- 
volver gripped in his hand, and just as he emerged from 
the hall doorway this double-action weapon of destruc- 
tion sent another messenger of death into the floor at his 
feet. In grasping the pistol the major had unconsciously 
fired it, but he very naturally thought that the burglar 
was in hot pursuit and was trying to fill his back with 
bullets, and with another warwhoop he fled frantically 
down the walk, reached the front gate, tore it from its 
moorings, and took the middle of the street in the race 
for life. 

As the major reached the center of the street that 
miserable self-cocker again sent forth a word of warning, 
and was this time answered by the runner with a genuine 
cry of agony. This time the pistol had been discharged 
while the major^s hand was pointing rearward, and the 
bullet had pierced the baggy portion of his pantaloons, 
grazing the skin, and powder-burning his person. As 
the report rang out he sprang high in the air and yelled : 
^^DonT shoot no more — you’ve got me.” 

From the speed he made down the street it would 
seem that he major wasn’t hurt much, for he soon dis- 
tanced a couple of small dogs that had endeavored to 
overtake the flying man. As he turned the next corner 
another shot rang out on the still night air, answered 
by a yell of defiance from the major, and he was gone 
glimmering. 


186 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


He never stopped until a mounted policeman over- 
hauled him and wrung the pistol from his grasp, and 
the major gasped: ^‘DonT shoot me no more — canT you 
see Fm shot all to pieces ?” 

He finally realized that he was safe in the hands of 
the officers, and then related how he had been attacked 
in his own house, shot, chased, and narrowly escaped 
with his life. The officers at once repaired to the resi- 
dence to make investigations, and then the mystery was 
explained. In turning the corner of the hallway the 
major had suddenly confronted a tall hall mirror, saw 
his own refiection therein, and fired. The shattered con- 
dition of the glass showed how true had been the major’s 
aim. In some mysterious manner the matter was not 
made public by the police, but then the police have their 
own secrets, and are not to be blamed for it. Next 
morning the local paper appeared with the following 
^^scare” headlines : 

BHRGLAEIOHS MURDEEEES. 

A Prominent Citizen Attacked in His Own House, and 
Barely Escapes With His Life. 

That evening Mrs. Swybeer received the following 
telegram : 

^^Come home immediately. Have been shot by bur- 
glars. Hot dangerously wounded. 

^^CoL. Thomas Swybeer.” 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


187 


MY LOGIC WOWT WORK. 


One of my Austin friends (and I suppose he is, be- 
cause I never did him any harm by word or deed) 
remarked the other day that Lamity Bonner is a 
tolerably fair writer, hut the trouble is he is not edu- 
cated.^^ 

The hell I ain’t ! Wasn’t I born in the good old 
county of Williamson, Texas, in the populous city of 
Corn Hill? Wasn’t I named ^^John” after that noble 
old Texan, Judge John E. King, whose spirit has long 
since passed over the river, and with Jackson’s, is ^^rest- 
ing under the shade of the trees ?” 

Wasn’t my dear old father a pioneer, who, aided by 
his strong arm and Christian spirit to make Texas 
grander and better ? Haven’t I chased road lizzards and 
horned frogs along the big, dusty public road that ran 
from Austin to Waco, and hung on behind the clumsy 
stage coaches, until the driver looked back and got his 
whip tangled up with my long, bare legs ? 

Wasn’t I there when those brave hoys, George Bonner 
(my only brother) and Joseph Pace, and the Gallatin 
boys, and the Warrick boys, and Col. E. S. C. Robert- 
son, and dozens of other brave hearts ^Tell in” rank in 
1861 and rode northward to defend the little cabins dot- 
ted all over those broad prairies ? 

Don’t I remember that long months afterwards the 
news came back that Arkansas Post had fallen (January 
11, 1863), and that those who were not killed had been 
marched to a northern prison ? 


188 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


Don't I remember that after waiting many days a 
weary and travel-stained rebel came' back and said my 
brother was dead — ^that Joseph Pace had been torn half 
in two by a solid cannon ball — said that nearly every 
one of the gallant troop had perished ? 

Don't I remember how I failed to comprehend the 
truth for hours and hours, and then how I crept away 
back in a log corn crib and wept as I will never weep 
again ? 

Can I ever forget how I longed to be a man and go forth 
to avenge my brother's death ? Childish impressions are 
the most lasting, -and that feeling I fear will last as long 
as I live. 

Not educated? Didn't my father, though far past the 
military age, shoulder his old squirrel rifle and, leaving 
my mother, young sister and myself at home to earn a 
living, tramp northward to avenge his eldest son ? 

Can I forget those dark, hard, dreary days in the lit- 
tle log cabin, when scantily fed, and heartsick, I would 
lie in bed listening to the ^^cluck, cluck" of the big 
wooden loom, as my mother worked far into the night, 
weaving all the clothes we had to wear ? 

Can I forget the time when the remnant of Texas 
boys came straggling home and said, ^The war is over ?" 
Can I forget the night my father came home, not whip- 
ped (but slightly hacked), and declaring that he ^^could 
see no reason for surrendering," and declared that he 
was still ready to renew the fi,Q-ht at any old time, and 
at any old odds? He died last year — God bless him — 
still ready to renew hostilities. 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


189 


Not educated? Why, I am running over with educa- 
tion. For many long years did I not chase the bloom- 
ing, bloody steer athwart the flowery prairie ? And 
wasnT it conceded that I could tell an unmarked year- 
ling by its walk a mile off? And didnT every cow I 
owned have from two to five calves and yearlings follow- 
ing her, all struggling for milk ? 

DidnT I rub up against the Grindstone of Life and 
get a polish that never comes from Harvard or Yale ? 

DonT I know what it is to make a living single-handed 
when humanity, hell, and high water are all against you ? 
Well, I should punctuate ! 

Not educated? DidnT I go to school for two long, 
weary sessions, and stop partly because I knew it all and 
partly because my teacher got mad when he tried to lick 
me and didnT do it? And didnT I get vexed and tell 
him that I knew less when I quit than I did when I 
started, and threatened to start an opposition school ? 

And didnT I show my manhood by breaking off my 
first engagement because the young lady said my writing 
looked like a straddle-bug had fallen in the ink and ran 
over the paper, and that I spelled any old word without 
using vowels? Thaffs no joke. 

Not educated? Why not? Is it the number of years 
a man spends inside the school room that counts? Or 
is it the practical things he learns by actual experience ? 
If he learns something alone and single-handed, and 
learns it correctly, could a teacher improve on that 
knowledge ? DonT you frequently find that a hand-made 
knife cuts just as well or better than the one turned out 


190 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


by machinery,? It may not look quite so handsome, but 
if it does the work, is not that sufficient ? 

l^ot educated ! Well, perhaps not. I sometimes feel 
as though my education has been .neglected, when I see 
a man (whose father made all the money the family ever 
will have) doing his best to belittle the struggles of some 
poor wretch who has always been compelled to earn every 
bite of bread he eats. I frequently realize the lack of 
education when I meet a graduate in Selfishness, who 
does not seem to understand why a working man should 
be permitted to live. When I meet a professor of Envy, 
Spite, Hate, and Impoliteness, I can not help remem- 
bering that I am deficient in that line, because of the 
lack of early education in those very common branches. 

Yes, I believe I am uneducated. Of course, I’ve 
picked up enough by coming in contact with good men 
to be honest, decent, God-fearing, charitable, and philan- 
thropic, and to rejoice when I see other people prosper- 
ous and happy, but on account of meagre educational 
facilities am entirely ignorant in the higher branches of 
learning such as hypocricy, envy, jealousy, and selfish- 
ness. With all my natural brightness, I have never 
learned how to do a fellow-man a mean, dirty trick. I 
don’t want to know how. 

Well, I started out to prove that I am well educated, 
but I’ll be darned if I haven’t convinced myself that I 
am in the kindergarten class, if some of the modern 
predominating characteristics are due to education. 

^ S ^ 

Most any one knows enough of the ^ffilack art” to 
raise the devil. 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


191 


STORY OF A PIED FORM. 


When the devil took possession of his kingdom and 
got down to business, he put all of his hands to work 
inventing and manufacturing various kinds of difficul- 
ties and troubles, to deal out to mankind later on. 

The devil dosenT waste buckshot on English spar- 
rows. He knows what sort of bait to put on for each 
individual fish, and when he wants to catch a trout or 
bass, he has too much sense to bait his hook with a big 
chunk of beef liver. Such bait might do for a mud 
cat, but never for a trout. 

In dishing out his batch of grief and trouble, the . 
devil always keeps back the choice bit for the final cast. 
For a printer, it is a ^^pied form.” Every man who has 
worked in a printing office enough to tell the shooting 
stick from the hell box knows that a pied form is the 
crowning sorrow to the printer. He may be a good 
church member, look as solemn as a frizzled chicken 
in a norther, but when that form glides out of its chase 
and hits the fioor with a sound like a brick chimney 
falling on a tin roof, that printer is going to swear. I 
once saw a deaf and dumb printer drop a whole page 
of an 8-eolumn paper on the fioor. He stood still for 
a moment, and rushing to his case picked up his pencil 
and a quire of blank paper, and sat down to a desk and 
wrote the most shocking profanity for an hour. Seem- 
ing somewhat relieved, he then shoveled up the ^^pi,” 
put it in a bucket and went on to work. 

Many years ago I lived in Lampasas, Texas, and was 
editor and distributor of the Dispatch^ a handsome 


192 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


weekly paper with a circulation like a man with high 
fever. During a state encampment that was held there, 
I determined to run ' a daily morning paper, get rich 
quick and sell out. 

One morning I closed copy at 2 o’clock, and being 
worn out with work, went up stairs over the office, and 
laid down on a soft, luxurious mailing table, leaving 
Ace Hoy, formerly of Austin, Max Andrews, now of 
Houston, and Harry Hudson, at present a merchant of 
Caldwell, Texas, to put the paper to press. 

I don’t know how long I slept, but in my dreams I 
was on the point of giving a man a receipt for $300.00 
cash in advance advertisment, when I was startled by 
one of the most unlordly crashes I ever heard. My 
first impression was that my contemporary had dyna- 
mited the office, but I soon found out better. 

^^Hurry, run up stairs and tell him about it,” I heald 
Ace suggest. 

^^Damned if I do,” answered Harry. “You know he’ll 
raise hell, and so you want me to go. Go yourself if you 
want to, but I’m not going.” 

“Well, Max, you go,” said Ace. 

Max didn’t want to go, and so declared in no uncer- 
tain tones. He was a little spindle legged kid at that 
time, but Ace and Harry were both grown, so they 
finally persuaded Max to come up and report to me 
what I already knew. 

Max came tiptoeing up the rickety stairs carrying 
an old lamp, and hiding his face behind the tin reflector 
that was smoked so black no ray of light could ever 
touch it and get away. 

I remained perfectly quiet, with eyes closed. Max 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


193 


crept up and took a good look at my face. He coughed 
slightly, and I answered with a gentle snore. 

^^Gosh ^amighty, but won’t he raise the devil!” said 
Max in a low murmur. He stood first on one foot and 
then on the other, started to retreat twice, but finally 
came back and gently touched me. I sprang up as 
though frightened and Max came near pieing the lamp. 
He kept the light on my face and his own was studi- 
ously held in the gloom of the refiector. 

^^What’s the matter, is the paper out ?” I asked gruffly. 

"Y-e-s, H-o-o-o Sir — that is — we-we- we’ve pied the 
local page.” 

He backed off a few feet so as to have an open run 
for the stairs, and I noticed the refiector was trembling. 

^^Leave the lamp on that desk Max, and I’ll be down 
in a minute or so. Tell the boys that’s all right — to 
hold up until I come.” 

Max needed no second invitation. He went off like 
a West Texas ^^swift.” As I am going to tell the en- 
tire truth in this story I will state that for a few mo- 
ments I was dazed. My paper was spoiled — all my 
work was wasted — and I knew that no paper sales, or 
local advertisements would come my way, because it was 
now too late to reset six columns of matter. 

I opened my desk, -pulled out a big black bottle 
marked ^^Old Hand Made Sour Mash,” and took a long 
toddy entirely straight. I sat at the desk undecided 
what to do — ^then I took another one. I waited ten 
minutes, and studied over the proposition, and some- 
how or other things began to grow a little brighter. 
This wasn’t the first form ever pied in a printing office. 
While I needed the money badly, I would not starve — 


194 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


no sir — I^d not starve — the boys would stay with me 
even if I did not pay np in full — you bet they would — 
I could hear them now busily engaged in collecting the 
scattered type. No sirree, the boys wouldnT leave me, 
and I wasnT going to cuss and swear and blame them 
for the accident, and I took another drink. 

I didn’t feel so bad, after all. But something must 
be done. That paper was going to come out or bust. 
I seized a pencil, and in ten minutes, called Max up 
stairs and gave him the following copy : 

Hark! What is that sound on the midnight air? 

It startles the cat in his native lair — 

It raiseth the back on the watch dog’s hair. 

And maketh him howl in rage ! 

’Tis the gentle voice of the ^^devil” fair. 

As he climbs the steps of the office stair. 

And yells at the sleeping editor there. 

We’ve pied the local page !” 

The editor groaned a moderate groan. 

And swore a swear in an undertone. 

And gazed on the trembling culprit lone 
As he shivered in dire distress — 

But the devil’s face grew bright and glad 
As the editor said in tones so sad — 

^^Eun in some patent medicine ads. 

And put the damned thing to press.” 

You ought to have seen that paper next morning. 
The above two verses of doggerel was all there was in 
the reading line on the local page. First came half 
column of Hood’s Sarsaparilla, followed by Tutt’s 
Liver Lifters, Eadway’s Eeady Eelief, Corn Salves, 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


195 


Blood Purifiers^ Kidney Propellers, Gizzard Gouges and 
every old patent medicine fake you ever heard of were 
jammed in side by side. Down in one corner bald- 
headed Douglas looked over and proposed to sell the 
long haired girl of Ayer^s Hair Vigor, a pair of ^^gents 
$3.00 shoes guaranteed to wear just as well as a $5.00 
pair.^^ 

Over in another column Mrs. Winslow was offering 
Lydia Pinkham Soothing Syrup, in exchange for some 
of her Female Vegetable Succotash, and Dr. DeWitt 
seemed to be trying to convince the Ingersoll Watch 
Company was that his Little Early Eisers, beat an alarm 
clock out of sight. 

Yes, that paper was a corker, and the two solitary 
newsboys, just in from the country were timid and de- 
clared they didnT believe anybody would buy such a 
sheet, but I sent them out anyhow. In twenty minutes 
they were back for more papers. They went like hot 
cakes. Everybody bought one and seemed delighted. 
Many people called to assure me it was the finest and 
most interesting paper I had ever issued and somehow 
or other I believe it was, otherwise it would not have 
sold so rapidly. 

Long years have passed since that eventful morning. 
I often think of it, however, and wonder if the other 
three boys have forgotten the incident. Another thing 
worries me, and that is to determine whether the suc- 
cess of that particular paper should be attributed to 
my natural brightness, fool luck, or that 

^^OLD HAND MADE SOUK MASH.” 

The question is up to the reader. 


196 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


STORY OF THE LAST SQUIRREL. 


It is not often that I stop long enough to listen to a 
tale of woe, simply because, like the boy that fell into 
the bunch of prickly pears, • T have troubles of my own. 
But last fall I heard a story that for simplicity, sadness, 
and sincerity, glides off with the bon-bons and disap- 
pears like an old turkey gobbler when he catches the 
first glimpse of a hunter. 

Weary with office work, I determined to go hunting, 
so I took my dog and drove about seven miles northwest 
of Austin to a place where, in days gone by, I had no 
trouble to find all the birds I wanted. Hitching my 
horse, I entered a field near the edge of the woods and 
began to hunt. 

The day was perfect, the air was crisp and cool, and 
I felt in fine trim for the sport, while ever and anon 
there came to my nostrils the imaginary scent of the 
broiled quail which I expected when I returned home. 

For some reason my dog could not find a covey of 
birds. He hunted far and near, examined weed patches, 
hedges and fence corners carefully, and nothing larger 
or better than a field lark or a Molly cotton-tail was 
found. For three long hours he labored faithfully, and 
finally, disgusted, came to me and said in language that 
any hunter could understand, ^^DonT you think we are 
on a cold trail And I said, ^Hfil be jammed if you 
ainT right.^^ 

I went back to my buggy, took in my tired dog and 
drove into the nearby hills, determined to kill a few 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


197 


squirrels before returning to town; but on arriving in 
the bottoms, I discovered that the squirrels had all left 
the country, or, at least, I could not find them. 

Finally I stopped near a spring to eat my lunch and 
let my poor, old, disappointed dog take a bath, and while 
sitting there eating, I saw him keep gazing up at a knot 
hole in an old elm tree. On following the direction of 
his eyes, I discovered a squirrehs head sticking out of 
the hole, and as soon as the animal found that I was 
looking at him he jerked his head back and began chat- 
tering at a fearful rate. 

This was not surprising to me, as it was a very nat- 
ural action on the part of the squirrel, but you can fancy 
my astonishment on hearing the low, tremulous note of 
a quail proceeding from the same tree — ^that peculiar 
warning note these birds always make when danger is 
nigh. On looking a little higher up the tree I saw the 
head of an old cock quail sticking out of a woodpecker’s 
hole, and he, too, disappeared when he saw my dog start 
toward the tree. By this time my curiosity was aroused, 
and I determined to investigate the matter, so I pulled 
off my hunting coat and started up the tree. 

To an old hunter — one who has spent all of his spare 
time and most of his money in roaming over field and 
forest in pursuit of game — the language of bird and 
beast is as well understood as his native tongue. He 
knows the meaning of every note or sound they utter, 
and can translate it into the human tongue as readily 
and correctly as the loving mother can the cooing of her 
own well baby. I have always prided myself on being 
an expert translator of bird and beast talk, and can un- 


198 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


derstand the so-called dumb animals as readily as I can 
English. So you can fancy my surprise when, reaching 
the first limb and stopping to rest, I heard the old squir- 
rel call out to the quail, say. Bob, d d if I don’t 

believe he is coming up the tree !” 

I kept quiet a moment, and then the squirrel poked 
his head out and asked in the very plainest and most 
pitiful squirrel language : ^^For Grod’s sake. Mister ! do 
you intend to exterminate the entire breed 

It was all I could do to keep from falling out of the 
tree. I never felt so confounded sheepish in my life, not 
even when the old farmer came into the camp and cussed 
everybody out about killing his entire flock of black tur- 
keys. Finally I braced up and said, ^^hTo, I don’t believe 
in exterminating anything useful or necessary.” 

^^Then what in the h — are you coming up here for ?” 
asked the squirrel, grinding his teeth together until they 
sounded like a carpenter filing a saw. 

^^Oh, I just wanted to climb up here to get a little 
fresh air. But, honestly, I’m not going to disturb you 
or any of the other squirrels,” I replied. 

^‘There ain’t any other squirrels here to disturb,” said 
the old fellow, as he crawled slowly out and sat upon the 
limb. 

He was an old chap, seemed very thin in order, and 
I noticed he was bob-tailed and had only -one eye in the 
south side of his head. The north eye had been de- 
stroyed by some means or other. I felt sorry for him, 
and reaching in my vest pocket, pulled out some pecans 
and asked him to come down and get them. He would 
not venture down until I had sworn that I would not do 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


199 


him any harm. Then he came slowly down, sat upon a 
limb near me, and as he ate the nuts he told me the fol- 
lowing story, and I believe every word of it : 

^^You see,^^ said the poor little creature, I handed 
him another pecan, “times are mighty tight with the 
game nowadays. I think I am the only living squirrel 
within twenty-five miles of Austin, and I am sure my 
friend Bob White, who is boarding with me in an up- 
stairs room, is the only quail in Travis county. How 
either one of us has escaped is a miracle. I have been 
shot at forty times, had my tail pulled off by a nigger 
in trying to pull me out of a hollow tree, and, in fact, 
am a cripple for life. I dare not get out of my hole in 
the daylight, so am half-starved all the time. I creep 
out about midnight and try to skirmish up a bite here 
and there, and that^s how I lost my north eye, by run- 
ning against a stick in the darkness. You know Nature 
never intended that a squirrel should have to prowl 
around in the dark for a living. I finally found this 
tree, and the only reason I am alive is because it is 
about four feet thick at the bottom, and the niggers are 
too lazy to cut it down. ITl bet my good eye against a 
dozen pecans that every bench-legged cur, fice, hound, 
and bare-backed Mexican dog in Travis county has yelled 
and gnawed bark at the foot of this tree. Every pot-s 
hunter inside of a twenty-mile circle knows I am here, 
and has sat and watched this tree for hours and hours, 
hoping that I would come out to hunt for something to 
eat. Poor old Bob is worse off than I. He is also a 
cripple, and has one broken leg. He had a large family 
last spring, but he is the only survivor. He got into 


200 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


trouble by depending on what he saw in the newspapers. 
He and his folks were out near the railroad track last 
July and found an old newspaper which said that no 
quail could be shot or trapped until late in the fall. 
This caused them to grow bold, and feed up near a farm 
house. Along in August, when all his twenty-seven chil- 
dren were fat and fine, and his wife was as happy as a 
lark, eight of the young ones and his wife very foolishly 
went into a trap and were taken in charge by a free nig- 
ger. A few days later a man from town, who professed 
to be a hunter, came along the road. Bob tried to con- 
duct his children across the road, when that scoundrel 
fired at the bunch on the ground and killed six of the 
young birds. The consequences were that between traps 
and pot-hunters, Bob^s entire family was wiped off the 
earth, and he himself chased and hunted and shot so 
full of Ho. 8 shot that he could not fiy up in this tree 
until I cut out about two dozen of them. A couple of 
doves staid with us all day not long ago. They were 
going west, and dared not fiy in the daytime. They said 
that it was impossible for wild bird or beast to live in 
Travis county, and that they were going to see if there 
was any county in the State where game was protected 
during the breeding season. One of them told me that 
the fish were all going to the gulf during the first rise 
in the Colorado river, in order to get out of the county. 
He said that what few fish were left decided that they 
could stand salt water better than trammel nets and 
dynamite. He also told me that away up near the head 
of Bull creek there was an old buck who was living in a 
cave. All the does and fawns had been killed out (Jur- 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


201 


ing the summer by pot-hunters, and that the old buck 
said he did not see how on earth he was to keep up the 
breed. I tell you, Mister, it^s awful on wild game, when 
a lot of free niggers, Mexicans, and unprincipled white 
scallawags are permitted to hunt all summer, destroying 
the young birds, and shooting the poor, helpless doe 
when she is going to see a midwife. But the agony will 
soon be over. Me and Bob have determined to stay here 
as long as we live. Well, are you going? I hate to see 
you leave; but for God^s sake donT let the Austin pot- 
hunters know me and Bob are both in this tree, or they 
would have us, if it took all summer to cut it down. I 
wish you would use your influence, if you have any, to 
try and break up this pot-hunting business. If you suc- 
ceed, and me and Bob can rustle up a mate, we will try 
to stock up again on squirrels and birds. Good-bye — 
when you are passing our holes, drop in and see us.^ 

I climbed down the tree, unbreeched my gun and 
came home, thoroughly disgusted with the entire breed 
of humau. varmints commonly called pot-hunters and 
game-hogs. 

^ ^ ^ 

WILL WOMEN WEAR SOCKS? 


An Austin lady, a subscriber to the Harpoox, writes 
me as follows : 

see froln the papers that Hew York society women 
have adopted the new fad of wearing socks, instead of 
wearing stockings. Do you think it will ever become 
popular in the South ? 

^TLillian.^^ 


202 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


Well, really, Lillian, I canT say. I Lope not. I pre- 
fer stockings to socks every time. They look better and 
God knows they feel better. When I was a boy, and even 
afterwards, socks were not considered absolutely neces- 
sary for either comfort or happiness. That idea is 
much more prevalent even now than one might suppose. 
A well-polished vici kid shoe on a gentleman’s foot is not 
positive proof of socks. A pair of ^Vristlets” may in- 
duce you to fancy that the man had on a silk under- 
shirt, while a pair of Lisle-thread “anklets” might lead 
you to imagine that the young man had on socks, even 
though he wore low-quartered shoes. 

To tell the truth — and I think it always the best — I 
don’t know much about socks, but I’m authority on 
stockings. I consider them the most necessary and at- 
tractive article of female wearing apparel, and have 
never considered a woman fully dressed unless she wore 
them. 

If married women ever give up stockings and take to 
socks, there will be more Jerry Simpsons in Texas than 
you can count. Nine-tenths of the married men never 
wear socks that possessed any pretense of a “foot,” but 
content themselves with their wives’ “uppers” cut off 
and sewed into the shape of a bologna sausage cover. 
They answer every purpose, and the association renders 
them doubly dear. It makes a married man feel more 
at home. 

Low-cut socks might answer very nicely for society 
women in dry weather, but they would stop traffic on a 
rainy day. If a pretty woman started across a sloppy 
street, and held her skirt high enough to avoid the mud. 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


203 


she would naturally show all of her socks and part of 
the woman, and I would be the leader of a mob to hang 
any man who would not stop fighting fire to watch her 
as long a^ she was in sight. 

Another drawback to sock-wearing women would be 
the difficulty in keeping them in place. Elastic would 
do no good because the shape of a well-formed limb 
would cause them to slip down, and produce a pretty 
ruffle around the top of the dainty shoe or slipper, giv- 
ing them the appearance of a cavalier^s boots in Crom- 
welfis time. 

Taking everything into consideration, I do not think 
Southern women will take as kindly to socks as South- 
ern men takfe to stockings. So far as I am individually 
concerned, I must say that if the time ever comes when 
the fair daughters of the Southland pull off their stock- 
ings and put on socks, I, for one^ will cease to entertain 
any interest on the subject. I will then purchase the 
finest pair of stockings I can find, fill them with saw- 
dust, hang them over my desk, and preserve them as a 
memento of departed days. 

Lillian, I know you, and know you to be a sensible 
woman, but take my advice, and don’t ever wear socks. 
If you do and ever pass me on the street. I’ll never look 
on your face again. I’ll be watching the socks. 

^ ^ S 

Some people make circumstances to hang their mis- 
fortunes on. 

^ ^ ^ 

It is the mission of every mortal to behave himself. 


204 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


TERRIBLE TALE OF A TABLE. 


I was strolling down Sixth street recently, vainly en- 
deavoring to discover something new on the '^^Bowery.” 
To save my life nothing of an extraordinary nature 
was in evidence. 

There were the same old signs that hung there when 
Texas was annexed to the Union. There was scarcely 
a blotch of paint in sight that hadn’t faced more storms 
than Methuselah, so far as outward appearance denoted. 
The same old clothes hung out in front of the second- 
hand stores that were there when Wilbarger was scalped 
by the Indians. And the same proprietors were stand- 
ing guard at the front door, gazing eagerly eastward, 
in hopes that some member of the Johnsongrass family 
might be coming in town with a few dozen eggs and a 
pound or two of ancient and antique butter. 

Once in a while, as my eye wandered over the multi- 
tude of signs, I caught the glimpse of some real neat 
and tasty bit of the painter’s art, which denoted a com- 
paratively new comer to the Bowery, but as a rule the 
prospect was one long line of weather-beaten fronts and 
prehistoric pajnt. At last I grew weary, and stopped in 
front of a store, where you can buy anything from sec- 
ond-hand to one hundred and fifty second-hand goods, 
and seeing a small table standing out as a ^^sign,” I sat 
down on it, and dangled my Cinderellas in the air, as 
I lit a cigar. 

The table was standing on the side street, leaning 
against the wall, and as I sat down it creaked and 
groaned as though I had hurt it. For some moments 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


205 


I remained quiet, listening to the squabbling talk of 
half a dozen niggers who had collected around a water- 
melon wagon, each endeavoring to induce the other to 
buy a melon, when the cash assets of the entire group 
would not have purchased a rind. 

Presently I was startled by a low, weak voice which 
said: 

“Gee, ain’t you about as able to stand up as I am?” 

I instantly slided off the old table and looked all 
around and under it, trying to discover the owner of the 
voice, but with no success. Not a soul was near. I am 
not at all superstitious, notwithstanding my well known 
antipathy for ghosts and all manner of spooks, including 
screech owls and such, yet I felt uneasy. I knew I had 
heard a voice, and I also knew no human being had ut- 
tered it. I was just on the point of leaving when the 
voice said: 

“Thank you, ever so much. You don’t know how 
tired I was, or I should not have disturbed you.” 

“You are entirely welcome,” I replied, as I spun round 
and round trying to locate the speaker, “but I’m not 
tired, and I will go over to August Fehr’s and get a 
cold bottle of Schlitz.” 

I wasn’t scared. I never get scared. Sometimes I 
get frightened and move off, but I was never scared in 
my life. J ust as I started I heard the voice say : 

“Please don’t go. I want to talk to you. Sit down 
on this chair near the door, and I’ll tell you something 
to put in the Harpoon.” 

I sidled cautiously up to the chair and sat down, al- 
though I felt more like going on. The chair was within 


206 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


twelve inches of the old table, and sts soon as I was seated 
the voice continued: 

^‘DonT feel nneasy, Ihl not hurt you. I^m just an 
old, second-hand table, and am anxious to have my story 
printed. Will you do it?^^ 

“Well, Ihl try, if you don’t undertake any monkey- 
business with me,” I answered. But how on earth did 
you ever learn to talk ?” 

“If you were as old as I am, and had lived among peo- 
ple as long as I have, you could speak every known lan- 
guage on earth,” replied the voice. “Just take out your 
note book and let me give you my history.” 

I got my pencil and book, and although I felt a trifle 
nervous, I determined not to he run off the block by an 
ordinary old table. This is the story as it was told to 
me, word for word : 

TALE OF THE TABLE. 

“I was born and reared in the State of Maine. I grew 
in a big forest, where the sound of a human voice or the 
stroke of a woodman’s ax had seldom if ever been heard. 
How many years of idle, peaceful life I spent in that de- 
lightful spot I know not. I’m sure that many, many 
decades had passed, and my life was one continual joy. 
In the spring the warm sun came in on time, warming 
the earth and sending thrills of life from my roots to my 
topmost boughs. I put on a robe of dainty green, and 
soon the birds would make their nests in my strong 
branches, the squirrels would play over my limbs, while 
some huge moose would lie down beneath my shade in 
peace and quiet. 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


207 


^^All spring and summer I grew and spread, and when 
winter came I doffed my dress of leaves and slept the 
cold, frozen period through. I certainly hoped that life 
would last forever, but a change came over my dream, 
and I soon heard strange sounds in the forest. The 
voices of men became frequent, the ring of axes and the 
buzz of saws made me tremble, and one day I was cut 
down, and fell with a crash upon the earth. It was a 
sad day for me. 

^^Of course, I felt no pain. It was long years after- 
ward before I ever did. I was chopped into lengths,’ 
carried to a mill, sawed into lumber, and finally made 
into this table. 

^^That was years and years ago. When I was com- 
pleted I looked real nice, with a good coat of brown 
paint that made me look like walnut, and a fresh coat of 
handsome varnish. In fact, I was billed out and sold 
as walnut, although I^m no more walnut than I am a 
rabbit. 

was shipped to Austin, God knows how many years 
ago, and in less than a month was sold to a nice family. 
My purchaser was a clerk in one of the departments, and 
got a real good salary. He came from some distant 
county, and put on more style than a barber pole. He 
rented a nice house, and, apparently, thought he was 
fixed for life, but after seven or eight years of peace and 
prosperity a new regime of salary-grabbers got in the 
saddle, and my master didnT have any more job than 
Cyclone Davis. That’s been, the good Lord knows how 
many years ago, but he’s still hanging around Austin, 
confidently believing that his old gang will finally get 


208 


K . Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


back into office, although half of them are dead, years 
ago. Of course, it donT look well for a second-hand 
table to make remarks about people, but 1^11 swear that 
there are lots of good men eternally spoiled by being 
given a little pull at the public teat. They never want 
to break away, and when they are finally choked off from 
the milk they hang around the public cow pen like 
motherless calves, bellowing and bellyaching for more, 
and never get over the impression that they have been 
robbed of their rights by the voters. 

^Tn about six months after my first master got let out 
on the range, he moved into a smaller house, and sold 
part of the furniture. I had cost $25, and was looking 
as good as new, but when the second-hand man came, 
and, in looking over the furniture, only offered $1.75 
for me, my master got mad and refused the offer. Later 
on, however, I was sold for $5, although there wasn’t a 
scratch on me. And then my real trouble began. 

“In less than a week my new master sold me to a lady 
for $18. She paid $10 down, and was to pay $1 per 
week for eight weeks. She was a widow lady, and worked 
in a millinery store. She paid for two weeks and then 
lost her job on account of sickness, and never could pay 
another cent. One month later I was carted back to the 
store. ^ 

“hhom that time on I have been on the go. I’ll bet 
Fve been sold 500 times, at prices ranging from $2 to 
$15. Two of my latter owners have paid me out, only 
to sell me to another second-hand dealer, who in turn 
would daub a little new varnish on me, tighten up my 
wobhly legs and start me out again. I’ve belonged to 


K, Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


209 


Americans, English, Irish, Germans, Swedes, Polanders, 
Norwegians, Swiss, Mexicans, niggers, and God knows 
how many other nationalities. This accounts for my 
slight foreign accent. IVe held up everything, from raw 
oysters and champagne to hot tamales and keg beer. 
Goshamighty, what a hell of a life I’ve led. It makes 
me sick at the stomach to think of it, and causes my legs 
to wobble like those of a new calf. 

“You see, one of my legs has been fractured. My last 
owner was a nigger down on Second street. He worked 
at night, and came home unexpectedly one night, and 
because there happened to be a neighbor calling at the 
house, he got mad, and broke about four chairs over him, 
and then threw his wife over the fence, and all the fur- 
niture after her. Some people are so fractious. 

“I came from one of the most ancient and honorable 
families in Maine, and you must know that it is very 
humiliating to associate with the people I meet in my 
remarkable travels. Once or twice during my life I have 
had the mortification of being used as a poker table, 
during a sitting of the Legislature, and you would be 
astonished shpuld I tell you who were present. But I 
won’t do it. Even a second-hand table has some secrets 
it never gives away. 

“What worries me is how this thing is going to end. 
When am I supposed to give out? If I was only broken 
beyond repair, and burnt, or thrown out to rot, then I 
would return to my initial elements and be happy, but 
every time a prospective purchaser comes around the 
clerk very gracefully and positively assures him that I 
am practically new ; only been in use a short time, when. 


210 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


in fact, I was a table before he was born. Jerusalem ! 
how they all lie. 

have been used for an ironing table, a dressing 
table, a center table, a corner table, a main table, a side 
table, a poker table, a table de hote, and for forty years 
a table de note. The notes are seldom paid, and I have 
to come back home. 

'T will tell you a little incident in my career that will 
cause you to sympathize with me. Some time last spring 
— hello — here comes the proprietor with a wood hauler 
in tow, who looks like he wanted a table. They are com- 
ing this way, and I feel like I am the victim. Excuse 
me for a few minutes, and if I am not sold again, I will 
continue my tale of woe.’^ 

I stepped to one side, and as I did so I heard the 
second-hand man say : 

^^Now, here’s a table — a really valuable, and prac- 
tically a new table — solid walnut, you see — no common 
veneering — only been in use a few weeks — got it when 
the late governor went out of office, but it cost me too 
much, $15. Yes, I see it has been slightly damaged, but 
that does not injure it in the least — careless driver, com- 
ing down the steps of the governor’s mansion, in a hurry 
and let it fall. Had it mended, you see, and want to get 
rid of it at a sacrifice — too high-priced and valuable for 
a second-hand store. Cost me $15, but I’ll tell you what 
I’ll do — I’ll let you have it for $7 cash, and a little 
weekly payment of only 25 cents per week for forty 
weeks. You see the 25 cents per week amounts to noth- 
ing — ^too small to bother you — and if you miss one week, 
of course, you can make it up next week — ^^dead easy, you 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


211 


see. Nothing like having a good table — pleases your 
wife — no need to tell her it is second-hand; sheTl never 
dream of it. It^s the best bargain I have, and honestly 
I wouldnT let you have it, but you’ve been a good cus- 
tomer of mine, and I want to treat you right. What? 
Never here before? Well, well, well, I’d have sworn you 
were John A. Cedarbrake, from Bull creek, but I see I 
am mistaken. However, as I have made a price on the 
table, I will stick to it, though it’s lucky for you that 
you closely resemble one of the best-looking and most 
enterprising citizens from the head-waters of Bull 
creek.” 

I heard the table groan, and I turned across the street 
to get the beer. As I came out a few moments later I 
saw the table being loaded into the woodhauler’s wagon. 
If it ever comes back — and I know it will — I shall get it 
to finish its story. 

^ ^ ^ 

WINTER DOWN IN TEXAS. 


Oh, it’s winter time in Texas, but the nights are sweet 
with dew. 

And the skies are full of glory, and the stars are shin- 
ing through. 

And the yards are full of roses and the violets are blue. 
And it’s winter, oh, it’s. winter, down in Texas! 

You can tell that it is winter, for the Christmas days are 

by, 

Though the violets are peeping from their covers on the 

sly, 


/ 


212 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


And the field lark^s song drips Tound you like an an- 
them from the sky. 

And it’s winter, oh, it’s winter, down in Texas ! 

— J. M. Lewis, in Houston Post. 

Yes, I tried this Texas winter, just a day or two ago — 
This sunny summer winter, where you seldom see the 
snow — 

I had four pairs of blankets, and a bale of Forney hay. 
And laid down by the camp-fire like a violet in May, 

It was winter, sunny winter, down in Texas ! 

The liquor in my bottle was the best I ever saw. 

And I felt supremely happy as I nestled in the straw. 

So, after my devotions, I laid me down to rest. 

And ^^not a wave of trouble rolled across my peaceful 
breast,” 

It was winter, dear old winter, down in Texas ! 

Great gosh I Before the midnight came, the weather 
changed, you bet. 

My teeth were popping gaily, like a Spanish castanets — 
The gentle dews were falling, and a’freezing as they 
fell. 

And the fiower-scented zephyrs were as cold as Billy — 
thunder ! 

It was winter ! Don’t you doubt it ! Down in Texas ! 

Be very careful, Lewis, when you write about the 
flowers, 

Of birds and honeysuckle, and our sunny summer 
showers. 

And should you go a Maying, you had better try my 
plan — 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


213 


Take a blanket, and a ^^slicker,” and a big palmetto fan, 
For yon are liable to run up on winter — or any other 
old sort of weather — down in Texas. 

^ ^ ^ 

SOME DRUNKEN MEN I HAVE KNOWN* 


The use of intoxicating liquors dates back into the 
far and misty past. In Genesis, 9 :21, we find that Noah, 
the first shipman of whom we have any knowledge, 
raised grapes, made wine, got drunk as a Prohibitionist 
in an anti town, and, as all men do under similar cir- 
cumstances, he made a gigantic and amalgamated jack- 
ass of himself. He went to sleep with not enough clothes 
on to patch a button-hole, and then, acting like every 
other drunken galoot who fills his old hide with too 
much booze, he got roaring mad because his son Ham 
happened to come in the tent and find him stretched out 
there on the blankets as naked as a raddish. He cursed 
and swore like an Austin newsboy, and damned Canaan 
for all he was worth. 

Canaan was Ham’s youngest son. Canaan never even 
saw Noah naked. It was Ham, Noah’s second son, who 
caught his drunken daddy sprawled out on the ground. 
Noah evidently intended to cuss out Ham ; but, just like 
the average intoxicated lord of creation, he jumped on 
the wrong man, Canaan, who knew nothing of the mat- 
ter, and damned him from El Paso to Texarkana. I 
don’t suppose Canaan paid any attention to his old, 
crazy, bug-housy grandpa, and when Noah got sober he 
doubtless had forgotten all, about it. They usually do. 


214 : 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


I’ll guarantee Noah wasn’t the first man who ever 
got drunk, and he won’t be the last. Wine has been 
made by men ever since men first saw grapes. It was 
not difficult to make it. In attempting to save the juice, 
they squeezed it into vessels or skins ; it fermented, they 
drank too much of it, and then shot out the lights. 

No doubt the millions of negroes who inhabited the 
earth long before the creation of Adam knew all about 
wine-making, and they taught it to the white man and 
his posterity. It has always been very funny to me to 
hear alleged smart men calling negroes the ^^descendants 
of Ham, who was cursed by Noah.” Noah never cursed 
Ham. He was too drunk to tell Ham from a cow-pony, 
so he just turned loose and cursed out Canaan, who 
probably wasn’t within ten miles of the tent when Ham 
caught the old boozer trying to dance the hoochie- 
koochie. 

Ham is not the father of the negro, as every sensible 
man knows. Ham’s descendants settled Egypt. His 
descendants all have long, straight hair, high foreheads, 
high noses, and every lineament of the white race. Em- 
balmed bodies of direct and immediate descendants of 
Ham in Egypt show them to be whites, and not negroes. 
Had the Adamites kept to themselves, and never mixed 
up with the negroes (see Genesis, chapter 6), there 
would never have been any flood to destroy that abom- 
inable race of mulattoes. 

However, as Noah is the first person ever up before 
the police court for being drunk and disorderly, he is a 
fair type of an intoxicated man. They have changed 
very little since that time. 


) 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


215 


I am an anti-prohibitionist on general principles, yet 
I sometimes meet up with pecular characters who al- 
most induce me to become a pro. Eight here I desire to 
remark that, should I ever conclude to become a prohi- 
bitionist, I am sure I would be a redhot one. I would 
probably not have as much sense as Carrie Nation, Cy- 
clone Davis, and a host of lesser prohibition freaks, and 
you can thus form some estimate of my mental debility 
should I ever secede from the anti column. 

To the man who never herded a first-class jag single- 
handed^ ^^all drunk men look alike”; but there are as 
many different characters among booze-busters as there 
are sands upon the seashore. I have casually met quite 
a number of gentlemen who sometimes wade too far out 
in the liquid depths of the fermented pool, and a study 
of their different habits is exceedingly interesting. 

Most men get drunk accidentally. It is very seldom 
premeditated, and then carried out to the ragged limit. 
Liquor has a different effect upon different men. 
Enough of it will make anyone drunk, and a real 
drunken man hasnT as much sense as an ordinary tad- 
pole. While he fancies himself the smartest mental out- 
fit that ever came down the pike, he is as consummate 
a monkey as ever stood on two legs. 

Men act differently when drunk, with one exception — 
they all act the fool. Most of them grow eloquent. 
Some of them tell of their rich kinsfolk. They relate 
marvelous stories of the wealth of some relative, and 
casually remark that in case of necessity they could 
touch said wealthy relative for any amount of money. 
These fellows are always lying. If they have such rela- 


216 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


tive, an investigation will always demonstrate that the 
poor fellow is not able To buy a young century plant to 
be paid for when it blooms. 

There is one class of drunken men who make me 
weary. They are the ones who always do their best to 
raise a row in a saloon. There is not one out of every 
one hundred of the^e warriors who would tackle a jay- 
bird in a fair battle. They are great big bologna sau- 
sages with the meat left out. The first military move- 
ment these mouth-artists usually make is to try to flank 
the barkeeper. He can do nothing to please them. They 
even object to the way he dishes out a whisky straight. 
After hurrahing the barkeeper and rendering everybody 
in the room uncomfortable, the warrior bold ^‘butts in” 
on some stranger, and tries to become an old acquaint- 
ance in ten minutes. Take my word for it, whenever a 
man has to drink whisky in order to get up his nerve, 
there is nothing in him. He wonT fight anything un- 
less it’s after he gets home with his wife and children. 
He is extremely dangerous then, and is liable to lick 
the whole family if one of them crosses him. 

Then comes the story-teller. He asks a thirsty friend 
to have a bottle of beer. Just about the time the thirsty 
friend pours out the beer, the gentleman begins telling 
a funny story. Politeness restrains the t. f . from drink- 
ing until the story ends. If the story-teller is drunk 
enough, the story never ends. Like the brook, it keeps 
on going. These bar-room story-tellers usually die of 
Havelitis — a disease contracted by a constant pressure 
of the cicatrix of the umbilicus against the outer edge 
of a saloon counter. Pm glad the disease is fatal, and 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


217 


so is the barkeeper, who needs the room to accommodate 
the men who drink quicker and talk less. 

The old, steady chronic drunk is a hard customer. 
Somewhere away back in the past he got drunk and 
never has sobered up. He is always at the door waiting 
for the porter to open up in the morning, and never 
fails to watch him put out the lights at night. He sees 
every man who takes a drink at the bar from opening to 
closing time. A story was in circulation that he once 
refused a drink, but on careful investigation I pro- 
nounce it a lie. He seldom asks you to “set ^em up” 
unless sorely in need, but when you pour out your booze 
he .manages to be quite near you, and fastens his longing 
eyes upon the bottle with such an entreating gaze you 
feel like it’s a shame to take back the change, so you 
ask him to drink. Poor old man ! There is no more 
harm in him than in a spoonful of oatmeal, and if you 
were in the gutter and starving, this old boozer would 
share his last crust with you. His is merely a plain, 
steady drunk from manhood to the grave, with no frills, 
tassels, or other ornaments. 

Col. Buttinsky is another type of a drunken man. He 
butts in on every man who enters the front door. He 
was never known to have a cent., He drinks deep and 
often. He is the terror of the barkeeper ; for the average 
man or crowd of men who want a quiet drink together 
won’t go in a saloon if they see the Colonel on guard 
duty. They wouldn’t mind giving him 15 cents with 
which to go off and buy a drink, but they don’t want 
to be bored with his company and endless gab. Hence 
they open the screen door, peep in, and, seeing the Col- 


218 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


onel is on his beat (dead-beat), they pass on, and the 
barkeeper, who sees everything, swears softly as a sum- 
mer breeze. Colonel Buttinsky is a near relative of 
Colonel Hossesbuttsky, and none of the family are worth 
killing with the bubonic plague. Some barkeepers re- 
fuse to permit either one of the Colonels to maneuver or 
parade on their premises, to the infinite delight of decent 
customers. 

Another big augur who bores everybody in a saloon is 
the old alcohol sponge with a nose like an over-ripe pie- 
plant, who spends all of his spare time trying to make 
the public understand that every man who takes even 
an occasional drink is as big a drunkard as himself. 
He hears from someone that you got full last Christmas 
a year ago, and he delights to remind you of it every 
time he meets you. It’s his standing joke. Being con- 
stantly drunk himself, he seeks to even up by relating 
some long-past little spree of a good-natured man who 
possibly never was drunk before or since. Misery loves 
company. 

I have frequently been asked, ^^How would you regu- 
late the liquor traffic if you had the power?” It would 
be a matter of extreme simplicity. It would take me 
about half an hour to write out the formula, but, of 
course, somewhat longer to pass proper laws and put 
them in operation. 

First. I would place the license for retailing liquor 
so high that a town the size of Austin would not have 
over three or four saloons, and probably not that many. 
I would even regulate the price. 

Second. I would make it a heavy penalty for having 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


219 


on hand or selling any liquors that were not absolutely 
pure. 

Third. It would be not less than a $5 fine for any 
saloon keeper to have any chairs, benches, cots, beds, 
stools, tables, or any other contrivance upon which a 
man could sit or lie down inside his house except such 
as were needed for his own exclusive use. 

Fourth. A fine of $100 and ten days in jail for every 
time a man treated, or ^^set ^em up’^ to any one. Any 
attempt to do so by any subterfuge would be prima facie 
evidence of guilt. 

Fifth. Each man who desired to buy liquor by retail 
would have first to register his name with the county 
clerk and secure a license, for which he would pay $1. 
In making application for said license, he would have to 
give name, age, nationality, place of birth, occupation, 
and also state approximately how much liquor per day 
he thought he could squeeze through on. No permits 
would be issued authorizing the purchase of over one 
gallon of whisky, or half a keg of beer per day by any one 
man, except to politicians, prohibitionists, fishermen, 
hunters, gamblers, and newspaper men. They need 
more, and should have it. 

Sixth. A fine of $100 against each man who staid any 
longer in a saloon than was necessary to get his drink, 
and a similar fine on the saloon keeper who permitted 
them to do so. One hour would be the limit. 

Seventh. Every grocer would be permitted to sell 
pure liquors in quantities of not less than one gallon 
and pay no license. A penalty of $100 on any man 


220 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


drinking the liquor on the premises, and same fine for 
the grocer permitting it drank unless he protested. 

Eighth. Five hundred dollars fine for selling liquor 
to an habitual drunkard. 

Ninth. Thirty days in jail for a man to get drunk 
at home, or go home drunk unless his wife also got drunk 
with him. 

I believe that would about hold down the liquor evil 
for a while. Most men get drunk by simply getting in 
with a crowd of jolly good fellows, and ^^setting ^em up” 
until each man has drank twice or three times as much 
as he ever wanted or intended to drink. Cut out even 
the system of ‘Treating^^ so prevalent in America, and 
you knock the eternal daylight out of nine-tenths of 
the hooze-fighting. 

If I could pass a law making it a jail sentence for 
any man to pay for a drink except for himself, I would 
prevent more beautiful hand-made jagS' and veneered 
^^usts” than by State prohibition. The lonesomest thing 
on earth is to get drunk by yourself. You donT have 
hardly any fun. You feel like a Eobinson Crusoe on top 
of a telephone pole in an uninhabited island. 

But T don’t suppose I’ll ever carry out my plans for 
abating the liquor evil. While I frankly admit that the 
improper use of stimulants is wrong, I am loath to pre- 
sume to dictate what my neighbor shall drink. I have 
as much right to tell him what he must eat and what he 
must wear. For that reason, I do not think I will ever 
be a prohibitionist. 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


221 


MY PHILOSOPHY OF LIFE. 


Not long ago, an old German in Houston committed 
suicide. He was said to be an elegant, refined, and edu- 
cated gentleman^ who was unable to secure employment, 
and, too proud to beg, ended his own life. He left a 
note which told the pitiable story. It read as follows: 

^Oh, my empty larder ! If I only had food, I would 
be willing to live.” 

A few days later, another more heart-rending story 
came from a Northern city. A man had died leaving a 
wife and three very small children. The little money 
he had left only lasted, a short time, and the woman, who 
was in feeble health, endeavored to prevent her babies 
from starving. For quite a while she struggled hard, 
but finally her frail strength was exhausted, and 10 
cents was all the money she had on earth. Next day 
was ^^rent day,” and notice had been served by the land- 
lord that he must have the money or out she went. 

That evening before dark she spent the last 10 cents 
for a loaf of bread, and fed this frugal supper to her 
three hungry babes, they no doubt wondering in their 
childish innocence why mamma did not eat any bread, 
and why there was no butter to go with it. 

Who can even fancy the thoughts of that poor, help- 
less mother as she sat with tear-stained eyes watching 
her half-famished babies eagerly devour the dry bread? 
She knew that within a few feet of where she sat there 
were stores full of wholesome and delicious food, but it 
was not within her frail power to get it. 


222 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


Later on she carefully bathed each small toddler, put 
on its best and cleanest little night dress, and placed 
them side by side upon their humble bed. Soon they 
were asleep. Then the miserable woman fell upon her 
knees beside her sleeping children, prayed one long, 
earnest prayer to her God, arose, turned on the gas, and 
laid quietly down on the floor. 

That’s all. Next day the four dead bodies of mother 
and three children were found, and a note explained the 
cause of the tragedy. 

Wasn’t it horrible? Wasn’t it pitiable? Don’t the 
mere idea of such a misfortune ever overtaking you and 
your loved ones cause you to turn your gaze to the front 
yard where ^our own children are romping in glee and 
exclaim: ^^God preserve them from such a fate”? 

A crust of dry bread for supper, and Death for break- 
fast ! Poor little half-starved babes ! Why should they 
live? Where in all their little sky peeped out even one 
Star of Hope or one glint of sunshine? What did the 
Future hold in store for them except hard blows, starva- 
tion, and misery? Their little eyes could only gaze 
through open windows where feasts were in progress, 
but their hungry mouths could never taste the delicious 
viands. The very dogs of the rich had food to spare, 
while these poor little neglected creatures, made in 
God’s own image, were starving to death within an 
arm’s length of plenty. It’s awful, hut it’s true. 

Some people say they don’t believe in a God. They 
say that no just God would permit such things to go 
unpunished. They assert that no man who respects him- 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


223 


self could bow down and honor a God who would per- 
mit helpless men, women, and children to starve to 
death in a land that is overflowing with plenty of food 
for man and beast. Such characters are fully described 
in Psalms, 14 :1, and 53 :1. Be sure and read it. The 
description was so true the psalmist repeated it almost 
word for word. 

That great unseen and mysterious Power that rules 
over the destinies of men, whom we call God, sends 
showers upon the just and the unjust alike. Seed time 
and harvest roll round with undeviating regularity, and 
the land is filled with plenty. It is a free-will offering 
from God to man. If, then, man is selfish, and by rea- 
son of strength holds more than his share, and permits 
members of his own race to starve to death under his 
very eyes, who is to blame; God or the man? And, if 
you disown and repudiate God for such an act, why 
not refuse to respect and honor the real culprit — ^the 
man who holds the means to relieve such suffering? 
God gave the food to the man with lavish hand. If 
he in turn does not do his duty, blame him, and not 
the God in heaven. 

The Bible has some very startling things to say about 
rich men and their chances for reaching a home of eter- 
nal happiness after death. Once a very rich man, a 
ruler or governor, asked Jesus the question plain and 
simple : 

^^Good Master^ what shall I do to inherit eternal 
life?^^ 

^^Why do ye call me good?^^ asked the Christ. ^^Hone 
is good save one; that is God.^^ 


224 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


^^Thou knowest the commandments/^ continued the 
humble, barefooted Nazarene martyr, to the inquiring 
millionaire: “Do not commit adultery; Do not kill; 
Do not steal; Do not bear false witness; Honor thy 
father and thy mother.” 

^^All these have I kept from my youth up,” answered 
the rich man joyfully^ for he now believed he was en- 
titled to enternal life, but Jesus gazed sorrowfully upon 
the man who was thus deceiving himself and answered : 

“Yet lackest thou one thing: Sell all thou hast, 
and distribute unto the poor, and thou shalt have treas- 
ures in heaven; and come, follow me.” 

I presume that held him a minute ! The Bible says : 
“And when he heard this, he was very sorrowful, for he 
was very rich :” Well, I don’t doubt it. He went away, 
and, as he was taking his departure, Jesus said : 

“How hardly shall they that have riches enter into 
the kingdom of God; for it is easier for a camel to go 
through a needle’s eye than for a rich man to enter into 
the kingdom of God.” 

Job 27:19 says: “The rich man shall Im down^ but 
he shall not be^ gathered.” 

Proverbs 11:4: “Eiches profit not in the day of 
wrath.” 

Luke 6 :24 : “But woe unto you that are rich, for ye 
have received your consolation. Woe unto you that are 
full, for ye shall hunger. Woe unto you that laugh 
now, for ye shall mourn and weep.” 

What terrible warnings; what desperate chances ap- 
parently hover around the rich who would seek salva- 
tion ! 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


225 


Did it ever occur to you that, while God has com- 
manded, or demanded, of every man the keeping of the 
ten commandments as the initial requisite to eternal 
life. He leaves the one essential duty optional with 
man; i. e.. Charity to his fellow-man? He gives you 
the money — you spend it as you like. He does not say 
that you shall give the poor one-half, one-fourth, or 
one-tenth of our wealth. He does not fix the limit of 
your charity to your> fellow-man, but, so help me God, 
I believe right here lies the whole secret of eternal sal- 
vation: love and tender generosity towards unfortunate 
humanity. It will win as sure as there is a God. 

Christ gave His very life for the poor. Why should 
I not at least share my food with them? God blesses 
me with a loaf of bread. I can not eat it all ; then why 
not divide with my unfortunate neighbor, who, like the 
Houston suicide, exclaims : ^^Oh, my empty larder ! If 
I only had food, I would be willing to live."” 

I am not one of these crazy cranks who believe every 
rich man will go to hell. I merely believe they will 
have a harder time to win eternal life than a poor man, 
because they have more to do, — greater responsibilities, 
— more is expected of them by the Great Euler of 
Heaven and Earth. I do not even believe that very 
many rich men will fail to enter heaven, and, should 
any one fail, the fault is his own. To be honest about 
it, I believe that, when the general round-up takes place, 
while no doubt the Devil will have a right smart bunch 
of scabby sheep, the great herd will be found quietly 
grazing along the shady, grassy valleys of the Eiver of 


226 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


Life, under the care of the tenderest Shepherd that ever 
guarded a flock. As I was raised on a stock ranch, I 
have from my boyhood always fancied hell was a small, 
overstocked, waterless, prickly pear pasture, while 
heaven was a boundless, sunny plain where green curly 
mesquite grass grew to your saddle skirts, and there was 
a never-failing river of pure, cold water every half mile, 
whose banks were lined with shady evergreen trees, and 
not a fly, tick, or mosquito on the entire ranch. That^s 
the sort of place on which to locate your herd of poor, 
half-starved, half-frozen cattle that have passed through 
the’ hard winters on this earth but have never com- 
plained or tried to stampede the bunch. DonT you 
know they will enjoy it? 

I do not believe I would like to be rich. There would 
be so much work for me to do, and I really donT like to 
work. It makes me tired all over. Besides, if I was 
rich, I might become unmindful of the duty I owe my 
fellow-men. It is easy enough for me to slice up and 
divide out my little extra loaf among a limited number 
of needy people, but it would be a different and a d iffi - 
cult job to undertake if I owned a bakery. Christ said 
in Mark 9 :41 : ^^For whosoever shall give you a cup of 
water to drink in My name (that is, in charity and 
love) because ye belong to Christ, verily I say unto you, 
he shall not lose his reward.^^ So I guess I had better 
try to make it through on less money and more water. 

Sometimes I take spasms, like other people, and long 
to be rich. I see so much poverty and distress I could 
remedy. I see so many tears that I could dry. I see so 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


227 


many helpless and down-trodden human beings I could 
raise from out the Slough of Despond and make happy. 
I see so many hungry mouths I could feed, and so many 
shivering, half-naked limbs I could warm and clothe. 
I see so many souls tottering on the abyss of shame and 
degradation that I could snatch to a plane of gentility 
and safety. I see so many noble men and honest 
women working like cattle on a treadmill, tired, weary, 
hopeless, and despondent, with not one single streak of 
sunlight shining in upon their miserable lives. My 
God^ how I would shout for joy could I be the humble 
means of turning in a flood of rest, peace, and happi- 
ness upon their dreary lives, and in seeing them realize 
that this old world is bubbling over with plenty for 
every living man and woman if God^s plans were only 
properly executed by his children. 

But then — I donT know. God knows best. If I had 
the money I might do like some other rich men do — sit 
down to a feast I could not digest, gaze in scorn at the 
wan, pale, hungry faces peering eagerly in at my win- 
dow, finally get drunk and go to my palatial couch 
muttering: ^^Oh, the poor people be damned! What 
do I care about their troubles?” 

Yes, I might do that way; and, for fear I might, I 
guess it^s best for me to just keep on being poor. Dp 
to date I have made a scintillating success of poverty, 
but for all that I love my fellow-men with all my heart, 
and thank God that a slice of fried bacon and a piece of 
bread keeps a man in just as good health and good 
humor as roast spring chicken, tartar sauce, celery. 


228 


K. Laioty’s Texas Tales. 


French fried potatoes, iced tomatoes, hot rolls, and 
dripped coffee. Contentment is a square meal; hence I 
will never go to bed hungry. 

^ 

A VERY QUEER CHARACTER* 

Everybody in East Texas knows old man Jimmie 
Bluford. He lives down near the Sabine river, and is a 
typical old Texan — having moved to this country in the 
40’s. He is a very peculiar old gentleman who never 
interferes in other people’s business, and who has been 
voting steadily for Jeff Davis since the war and swears 
he never intends to vote for any other man. His early 
education was somewhat neglected, and Uncle Jimmie 
has never improved on it during subsequent life. He 
lives on and owns a large farm, which is cultivated by a 
family' of negroes who belonged to him during 
“slavery,” and I very much doubt whether Uncle Jimmy 
has ever formally enlightened those negroes of the 
emancipation proclamation. If he has done so, I am 
sure the negroes have forgotten all about it, for they 
could not be induced to leave “Mars Jimmie” under 
any consideration. 

The old man has never married. He lives alone in 
his cabin, while the negro cabins, some ten or twelve in 
number, are near by. Everybody knows Uncle Jimmie, 
and everybody likes him. His plantation is in a pe- 
culiar bend of the river, and almost isolated from other 
human beings, his nearest neighbor being six miles dis- 
tant. ^ 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


229 


If Uncle Jimmie has ever been sick, no physician 
knows anything about it. He claims to know consider- 
able about ^^yearbs and sich/^ and dotes on hot teas and 
good whisky. Uncle Jimmie has never allowed any one 
to enter his house and leave without having an oppor- 
tunity to take a drink of good whisky. The negroes all 
love him, and his slightest wish is supreme law to them. 
They raise quite a large crop of cotton^each year, and 
Uncle Jimmie does all the selling. 

He never fails to have plenty of corn and bacon to 
sell, also, and his cotton crop is only produced as a sur- 
plus. There is a story to the effect that the old man 
refuses all paper money, yet I do not credit the story. 
One thing, however, is a certainty — he carries his 
money home, and I defy any man to say he ever brings 
any to town with him. Instead, he brings something to 
sell, and then makes his necessary purchases. Just 
what he does with his money or that of his negro 
tenants’ is the mystery. You can learn nothing from 
these negroes, and it is very doubtful if they know any- 
thing about the old man’s business. They love and also 
fear him, for a negro never loved any man he was not 
afraid of, and no amount of persuasion could induce 
them to divulge a secret belonging to ^^Mars Jimmie.” 

Several years ago, while on a hunting and fishing 
trip, I passed near the plantation, and while walking 
along the river bank was suddenly startled by a voice 
inquiring : 

“Hello, my son — whar are ye goin’ ?” 

Instantly I recognized Uncle Jimmie, who was sit- 


230 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


ting on a log smoking a cob pipe, evidently the manu- 
facture of one of the negroes on the plantation. 

^^Why, hello, Uncle Jimmie — how are you making it 
now?” I exclaimed, good naturedly. 

^^Oh, tohble, my son, jes’ tohble. You see, I am 
kinder stiff these cool mornin’s, and I jes’ thought I’d 
come out and kill some squir’ls fer exercise, you know. 
I fotch Jeff Davis to turn ’em, and you see, I’ve got 
’bout er dozen, I s’pose.” The negro boy, Jeff, held up a 
string of squirrels for our inspection. I counted them 
and found thirteen in aU — which was more than I had 
killed, although I had a Uo. 12 hammerless Parker, 
while Uncle Jimmie carried an old single barrel shot- 
gun, about 40 inches long, and a muzzle loader, of the 
vintage of 1855. I sat down on the log and offered the 
old man a cigar, which he accepted, turning over the 
pipe to J eff, who finished the tobacco remaining therein. 
I was tired and decided to have a long chat with Uncle 
Jimmie, so I asked: 

^^How’s your crop this year. Uncle Jimmie?” 

^^Well, sir, it is pow’ful po’, pow’ful po’. Fust it was 
too dry an’ then it was too wet. Then the boll wo’m 
hit us, and fust one thing and ernuther, till I declare, I 
never seed the like. I’ve sold nearly sixty bales of cot- 
ton, but didn’t git nothin’ for it — nothin’ for it. Thar’s 
sompun wrong, shore as shoot’n. We’ll have lots of 
corn and lots of fat hogs, though, so I s’pose we won’t 
starve.” 

^^There is no danger of you and your hands starving, 
Uncle Jimmie,” I said, laughing, and, without think- 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


231 


ing^ I added : doubt you have many good old yel- 

low $20 gold pieces laid by for a rainy day.^^ 

Instantly a change came over the old man’s face. 
His brows contracted, his eyes sparkled, and he looked 
at me in a suspicions manner. His long, lean, blue fin- 
gers clutched his gun convulsively, and he fastened 
his small gray eyes on my face as though he would 
read my innermost thoughts. Finally leaning over, he 
almost hissed in my face: 

^^Who said I had money? He lies — he lies, sir! I 
have not a dollar in the world. Who told you I had 
money ? Has any one been pryin’ ’round my house ?” 

He had risen to his feet and stood in the attitude of 
defense, and I did not relish his nervous fumbling of 
the gunlock. 

I tried to explain to the excited man that I was only 
joking — ^had never heard his name connected with 
money — but he grew almost frantic. 

would kill you, sir, if you tried to pry ’round my 
house — I have no money — ^not a cent, sir — not a cent — 
but some fools say I have — ha, ha — ^but I’ll shoot the 
man who dares ter come prowlin’ ’round my house — 
yes, sir, I’U kill him and feed him to my hogs — don’t 
you ever come here ag’in, sir — don’t ever cross my land 
ag’in. Money, indeed I Twenty dollar gold pieces, in- 
deed! I tell you I have no money, sir — I have no 
money. The man who says so lies — ^he lies.” 

The old man turned on his heel and started for home, 
closely followed by the negro boy, and I was glad to see 
him leave. I sat down and pondered over his strange 
actions. At the mere mention, in jest, that he had 


232 K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 

money, he had become unduly excited and went almost 
frantic. Could the old man be a miser ? Could he have 
large sums of money hidden away in his cabin and 
feared being robbed of his wealth? Perhaps so, but if 
anyone desires to ascertain the truth of the matter they 
can do so without my assistance. All the gold of Cali- 
fornia could never induce me to make another track on 
Uncle Jimmie^s plantation. 

^ 

When a young girl first has beaux, 

She is happy as every one kneaux; 

And the ecstatic bliss 
Of her lover’s first kiss. 

Puns down from her head to her teaux. 

She loves to ride out when it sneaux. 

Dressed up in her very best cleaux. 

But it worries her much 
When Jack Frost’s touch 
Produces the red on her neaux. * 

^ ^ ^ 

THE WAY THEY SAY IT* 


Did you ever notice how long it takes some people to 
say good-bye ? I have seen two women stahd in the hall 
door, and the following conversation would occur: 

Mrs. Jones — “Now do come back soon. I think it 
real mean to not com© oftener.” 

Mrs. Smith (gathering up her skirt) — “Well, good- 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


233 


bye — I will come over right soon, and yon must come 
and bring the dear children.” 

Mrs. Jones (kissing her for the fourth time) — 
^^Good-bye — I won’t fail to come. You know Mr. 
Jones has just been dying to come (winking), and 
that’s why I’ve been putting it off — now, don’t you 
stay away a month before you come back.” 

Mrs. Smith — ^^Oh, no — I won’t. Good-bye. Tell 
Mr. J ones to come over without you (smiling and wink- 
ing vigorously), and I will see he has a good time. 
Good-bye.” 

Mrs. J ones — ^^All right. I’ll send him over, and when 
he comes you send Mr. Smith right over here (more 
coy smiles and winks), and we will have a jolly time — 
now good-bye — I’ll look for you.” 

Mrs. Smith — ^^Good-bye, dear — -now do come over.” 

Mrs. Jones — ^^Good-bye — I’ll come. You be sure 
and come.” 

Mrs. Smith — ^^Oh, I will — good-bye. Don’t fail to 
bring Mr.^ Jones.” 

Mrs. Jones — won’t — good-bye — I’ll look for you 
about next Thursday.” 

Mrs. Smith — ^^Well, maybe I’ll come. Good-bye.” 

Mrs. Jones — "Eemember — good-bye.” 

Mrs. Smith — ^^I will — good-bye.” 

Mrs. Jones — ‘^Good-bye.” 

Mrs. Smith — "Good-bye.” 

Three minutes later Mrs. Jones closes the door and 
says: "She thinks she is somebody since she married 
Will Smith. I could have married him a dozen times, 
had I liked.” 


234 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


Mrs. Smith turns the nearest corner and says to her- 
self : 

^^Well, God knows Kate Jones was ugly enough be- 
fore she married, but she has got it bad now. How on 
earth Will Jones ever took a fool notion to marry her 
is beyond my conception. I really think he did it un- 
der the impression it would spite me. She said she 
would probably come Thursday — I hope she will make 
it Thursday week, and leave those brats at home.^’ 

Sucli is life — as the bug said when he fell in the tar 
barrel. 

^ ^ ^ 

MORAL LEPERS, MALE AND FEMALE^ 


In every town, city, or community a wave of morality 
sooner or later rushes over it, and everybody gets good. 
In cities, the first move is usually to pass some very 
stringent rules regulating houses of ill-fame. 

I never did believe that class of people are treated 
fair. I do not palliate or seek to lessen the enormity of 
the offense, but, in the name of common decency, why 
not treat all alike? Who is the greater sinner, the be- 
trayed, penniless and ostracised woman, who sells her 
soul for bread, or the well-to-do, prosperous man, with- 
out whose aid it would be impossible for her to sin ? 

Is murder committed by a woman worse than mur- 
der committed by a man? If a woman steals your 
purse, is she a greater thief than would be the man 
who did the same thing? Then why should lewdness 
in a woman be punished more harshly than in a man? 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


235 


There may be some just reason for such partiality, but 
I will swear I have never been able to discover it. 

In most cities the unfortunates who live in houses of 
ill-fame are taxed — made to pay a license — for the 
privilege of going to hell in a gallop. I see no wrong 
in this, provided the men who haunt such resorts are 
also taxed, and made to pay for the privilege of mak- 
ing two-legged jackasses out of themselves. They ought 
to undergo a physical examination, and be given a di- 
ploma, in the shape of a nice nickel-plated button. This 
button should be worn on the lapel of the coat, so as 
to give the public a correct impression of the man’s 
social standing. 

When a young girl makes one false step, the world 
combines against her, and she is given no more show 
than a lone watermelon at a nigger picnic. Guilty or 
innocent cuts little ice, just so some lying scoundrel 
starts a damaging report. Even though her sin be ever 
so slight, and her heart as pure as the morning dew, 
if a report is ever circulated reflecting upon her chas- 
tity, you had just as well murder her and be done with 
it. It would be more merciful. 

This seems to be the unwritten, unalterable law of 
society, so far as the girls are concerned. Then, in all 
fairness, why does this not apply to men? The young 
society buck, whose purse is kept bulging out by the 
grace of an indulgent father, can not commit acts of 
debauchery or libertinism sufficiently atrocious to bar 
the door of society against him. What matters it if he 
spends night after night in the embrace of a debauched 


236 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


courtesan? With nervous steps, and breath reeking 
with the fumes of dead liquor he leaves the rear door 
of his drunken mistress^ and knocks confidently at the 
front door of some respectable family. Oh, he^s got his 
nerve, for, after .his debauch, he feels like it would set- 
tle his stomach to sit down in some decent parlor and 
have a refined and innocent girl play the piano for 
him an hour or two, and thus help him to work off his 
jag. 

There is an ancient saying, which probably origi- 
nated with some such lecherous old beast as King Solo- 
mon, to the effect that each young man has to sow his 
wild oats. In other words, that during his young days 
he is privileged to make a razor-backed hog of himself 
without prejudicing his latter life. That theory is 
wrong. The young man has no moral or legal right to 
disgrace himself during his younger years, and believe 
me, the one who does can never recover from the ill- 
effects of youthful sinning. 

If every young or old man who insists on a life of 
licentiousness was compelled to wear a badge in the 
shape of a button previously suggested, I doubt very 
much if society would even then close its doors to these 
debaucherers. As a matter of fact, they are known in 
every village, town and city, yet fond and anxious 
mamas continue to turn handsprings to answer door 
bells and welcome them into their parlors. 

I hope the reader will give me the credit for realiz- 
ing that this evil will never be stopped. God knows 
I do not hope to be able to stop it. As a matter of 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


237 


fact, though, I do hope to see the time when society will 
be a trifle more just with the person who sins, be it 
man or woman. The rule has been to stone the 
woman and let the man go free, but it is as wrong now 
as it was on that memorable day when /^He, who spoke 
as never man spake,” said to a trembling, sinful woman, 
"Neither do I condemn thee. Go, and sin no more.” 

Stone the woman — let the man go free. 

This is the verdict of a guilty world 
Admit the wretch in best society — 

Heap stones and curses on the helpless girl. 

Turn loose your gossip tongues like eaglets beak. 

And rend and tear her very heartstrings loose. 

It matters not how little truth you speak. 

Just so you crush her down with vile abuse. 
Construe each trivial act a vile offense — 
Humiliation’s flush, the blush of shame. 

Imagine every tear a weak pretense 

To wash dishonor from a tarnished name. 

Yes, crush and trample down the helpless girl. 

And glory in the wreck you help to make. 

Then turn your pious (?) eyes to heaven and pray — 
"We ask these mercies all for Jesus’ sake.” 

Women never fall, except through the deceit and 
treachery of some man. Hence it does look hard to me 
to see men, the stronger sex, always ready to push her 
lower and lower, and lay burdens upon her weak shoul- 
ders while her partner in crime goes as free as air. It’s 
wrong — damnably wrong, and no decent, honest man 
will dispute it. 


238 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


I may be considered very ^^cranky’^ on some subjects, 
but I will always contend that, between the midnight 
assassin, who creeps into a peaceful home and plunges 
the dagger into the father^s heart, and the fiend in 
human shape who, after being welcomed into a happy / 
home, seduces, debauches, and socially murders the 
golden-haired pet of the household, the former is an 
immaculate gentleman compared to the home-wrecker. 

The vile ravisher, led on by beastly animal lust to 
commit a heinous deed, is strung up to the nearest 
limb, yet so help me God, I believe he is outstripped in 
hellishness by the creature who, under the robe of 
friendship, hurls a guileless, pure young girl headlong 
down the deep abyss of social degradation into a living 
hell. In the former case no trusts were betrayed — no 
blame is attached to the unfortunate and helpless vic- 
tim, while in the other the infernal wretch opens the 
door with the key of friendship, and not only betrays 
the confidence of the fond parents, but dashes down the 
household idol into everlasting disgrace and shame. 

I sincerely trust that I may live to see the day when 
vengeance, quick and sure, will be meted out to every 
destroyer of female virtue, and when such characters 
will be kicked promptly from every decent door they 
attempt to enter, and at least bear equally the shame 
^ heaped upon their helpless victims. 

Whafs sauce for the goose, ought to be a very fair 
lubricant for the gander: 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


239 


ABOUT DOGS, AND OTHER FOLKS. 


(Dedicated to Bryan Bell, of Tyler, Texas.) 

The more I learn about dogs, the better I understand 
human nature. Show me any sort of a dog, and I will 
at once point out to you characteristics as purely human 
as ever emanated from a man. I don’t know whether 
the dog gets his nature from association with man, or 
vice versa. It’s a fact, however, that the canine has hi^ 
loves, his hates, his selfishness, his generosity, his brav- 
ery, his cowardice, and various other good and bad quali- 
ties, just like a human being. 

The only thing in which the* dog excels the man is 
in his absolute loyalty to his friends. In this respect, 
no human being ever lived that can equal the dog. 

No man is too poor to have friends. He may not 
have a big bunch of them, but he will always have some. 
If he becomes rich, his friends increase in proportion to 
the growth of his bank account. Some people deny this, 
but it is a fact. I’ll swear to it. Friends are like glue. 
Some brands will stick tighter and longer than others. 
Things may occur, however, that will part the dearest 
of friends, and part them as far asunder as the points 
of the compass. 

In this instance the dog has the advantage. He can 
not be induced or coaxed to give up his master and friend 
except by brute force. If his master is a millionaire or 
as poor as restaurant soup, cuts no ice with him. He 
will dine on remnants of roast beef, fried chicken, tender- 
loin of trout, with ^^ngel’s food” for dessert, so long as 


240 


K . Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


his master is rich. When reverses come, when the pala- 
tial home is sold to satisfy clamorous creditors, the dog 
'Will quietly get up from off the rich Brassels carpet, 
follow his broken-down friend to a hovel, mount guard 
at the shackly door, and sleep on the bare, cold ground 
without ever whining. And if you force him away, and 
lodge him in the kitchen at Delmonico’s, as soon as he 
has the opportunity he will jump through a window, and 
fly to join his friend, who is living on starvation rations 
in a back alley. That’s where the dog has the edge on 
the man in true loyalty and friendship. 

I guess I am a dog crank. Everybody is cranky on 
some subject or other, and I had just as soon loose my 
trolley on a dog as most other things I see. In this 
connection I will write a true story of a dog that I knew 
well. He has been chasing rabbits and scrapping spectral 
canines for many years, but I love his memory still, and 
perhaps in the dim future, when the thin, gauzy veil is 
rent asunder, I may meet him again, and, if so, I will 
guarantee he knows me, and will wiggle his ghostly tail 
with delight. 

When I lived in Tyler, Texas, many years ago, I met 
Gus Bell. He was a very large pointer dog, belonging 
to Bryan Bell, the well known cotton compress man. 
Although Gus could trace his ancestry back many dec- 
ades farther than most people, he never amounted to 
a cent in the sporting line. Town life suited him ex- 
actly. His master never hunted, or cared to hunt, and 
being a very busy man, Gus’ education in that line was 
sadly neglected. He was as energetic as a red ant at 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


241 


a picnic, and as social and familiar as a hired girl, so 
he soon srot to running with newspaper men and poli- 
ticians, and I suppose you can guess the rest. 

He visited the barber shops, the saloons, restaurants, 
and hotels, and made himself perfectly at home. He 
was a handsome rascal, and seemed to know it. He was 
the largest pointer I ever saw, snow white, with lemon- 
colored spots scattered liberally over his huge frame, 
and would scrap any dog from Troupe to Mineola. Gus 
made friends all over town, and never forgot them. I 
remember that through a kindness of mine, which it is 
not necessary to mention, Gus took a great liking to me, 
and used to show up once a week, usually on Mondays, 
come in the house, pay his respects to my family, go out 
in the front yard, put the cat up a tree, clean his feet 
on the Bermuda grass, and then trot olf to his down- 
town offices. 

Gus contracted a great contempt for country dogs. 
When one came into town, he either licked Gus or got 
licked before he left the city. I remember one time I 
had just stepped out of Bergfield^s bank, down on the 
southeast corner of the square, with Gus at my heels. 
A negro had just stopped his wagon near the corner. 
Under the wagon sat a dog. Gus spied him, and at once 
declared war. He first erected his bristles, clawed the 
red mud off his feet on the pavement, rubbed up against 
an awning post or two, and showed his teeth to the dog 
under the wagon. In dog language this is a deadly in- 
sult, but the stranger never seemed to notice it. 

I started on down the street and called Gus, but he 
merely wagged his tail, leaned up against the post, and 


242 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


seemed to say, ^‘Just wait a minute till I chew the ear 
off that country cur, and Iffl go with you over to Bob 
Clark’s or Tom Smyres.” 

Seeing that the country dog paid no attention to his 
remarks, Gus walked about half way to the wagon and 
came to a dead ^^point.” His bristles were up, his tail 
as rigid as the finger of scorn, his teeth gleaming like 
piano keys, while a low growl came from his throat. 

Up to this time I had not noticed the other dog par- 
ticularly^ but when I saw him rise slowly to his feet, I 
called out, ^^Here, Gus — you’d better come here and let 
that bull dog alone.” The warning did no good. The 
bull dog came crouching towards Gus until they were 
only three feet apart, and each one seemed trying to 
frighten the other with deep growls and a display of 
teeth. 

The next moment they went together like colliding 
engines ; Gus was the heaviest and knocked the bull dog 
fiat on his back. The air was full of snaps, hair, toe 
nails, and sand for two minutes. I could not distinguish 
one dog from the other. At this time the negro rushed 
out, and began to try and separate the fighters. Al- 
though I was loyal to Gus, and hoped he would win out, 
I soon saw that he had tackled the wrong dog. That 
brindle son-of-a-gun had fastened onto Gus’ throat and 
was doing the strangulation act in great shape. The 
negro and I finally pried the bull dog loose, and Gus 
was perfectly willing to accompany me across the square. 

The greatest period of success that Gus ever enjoyed 
was one summer when the aldermen and local reporters 
took hydrophobia, and decided to muzzle every dog in 
Tyler. Gus soon had on one, but still kept up his scraps 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


243 


with country dogs. As the muzzle prevented him using 
his teeth, the country pups had a walkover. 

His master, Bryan Bell, saw the injustice of the situa- 
tion, so he arranged to fix G-us so he could protect him- 
self. He bought a large steel darning needle about eight 
inches long, and had a tinner to solder it on the top bar 
of Gus’ muzzle, so that the needle protruded at least six 
inches in front of the dog’s nose. 

After that Gus came near running himself to death 
trying to catch country dogs. He would meet them on 
the street, accost them in a friendly manner, stick the 
needle in them about four inches, and that dog would 
give a yell and light out for Black Fork bottom with 
Gus in hot pursuit. 

Gus never did seem to understand it. He got so he 
was afraid to approach another dog, for fear he would 
run off before he had gotten acquainted. Town dogs, 
with whom he was^ on friendly terms, simply tucked 
their tails and struck out for the sweet gum thickets 
every time Gus hove in sight. 

Finally Gus grew thin and despondent. He liked 
company, even if he had a fight with it, and the refusal 
of all the dogs to receive even an introduction to him 
seemed to worry him no little. I think he finally de- 
cided that his propensity for fighting had actually os- 
tracized him from all decent dog society. He never did 
get on to the darning needle racket. The other dogs 
did. 

When the cool weather came on, Gus’ muzzle was re- 
moved, and after that he made lots of friends among 
the dogs that had formerly burnt the wind every time 
the big white pointer came in sight. 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


244: 


BUSINESS IS ALWAYS BUSINESS* 


God bless the birds^ the little birds 
That fly around your doors. 

And also bless the pretty girls 
Who work around the stores. 

It’s awful nice when you are young, 

And sing and dance and court. 

But don’t forget you soon may have 
A husband to support. 

^ ^ ^ 

HOW JOE CAME TO HIS SICK CHILD* 


A railway telegraph operator once told me the follow- 
ing story, which he declared was true. It delineated in 
a graphic manner the love of a big, rough man for his 
child. The story is as follows: 

^^Onee I was sitting in the dispatcher’s ofiice of the 

railway, talking to the chief operator. It was 

a bright, balmy day, and my friend was in excellent 
spirits. There was very little matter going over the 
wires, and the operator sat idly drumming the closed 
^key and chatting in a cheerful vein. Suddenly the wires 
began to click, and, as I am an old operator, I naturally 
pricked up my ears and heard the following message go 
over the wires : 

^To Joe Conductor Freight Ho. 3. The 

doctor says baby is dying. Come if possible. (Signed) 
Mary.’ 


K. L amity’s -Texas Tales. 


245 


‘^The chief dispatcher turned to me and said: Toor 
Joe. I pity him. That is his only child, a handsome 
little five-year-old girl, with curls like long coils of May 
sunshine. She is the pet of the yard men, and is al- 
ways on hand to kiss her big burly papa good-bye when 
he goes out on his run. Joe’s whole soul is wrapped up 
in that little pink and' white scrap of humanity, and 
when he comes in from his run can hardly take time to 
turn in his report, so anxious is he to rush off home to 
see his darling. I wonder what on earth ails the child ? 
I saw her yesterday morning and she was well and happy. 
She and her mother rode up yonder to the crossing and 
got off and threw kisses as long as he was in sight. Let 
me see — Joe will catch that message at Athensville, and 
he is due there now. I honestly believe that man would 
go crazy if his girl should die. I pity him from the 
bottom of my heart. I never had a child of my own, 
but I can fancy the unutterable grief over the loss of 
such a sweet little love-pledge as Joe’s Lillian. Joe has 
the local freight and can not possibly make the necessary 
stops and reach here before 6 o’clock this evening. It 
is only a little over sixty miles from here to Athens- 
ville, but passenger No. 1 holds the right of way to 
Chandling, and the south-bound through freight passes 
Joe’s local at Sandy Switch. So he can do no better 
than come in on time at 6 o’clock. Poor Joe, I am — • 
hello, there’s Athensville, let’s see what he wants.’ 

“The wires ticked off rapidly, ^Joe ’s child is 

dying. He asks permission to run in at once.’ 

“My friend, the chief dispatcher, studied a moment, 
and his face wore a pitying expression as he replied over 


246 


K. L amity’s Texas Tales. 


the wire, Tmpossible. No. 1 is on time and has right of 
way to Chandling.’ In a very few seconds the wires 
said, ^Joe says for God’s sake give him the right of way, 
he must come.’ My friend answered, as the pained ex- 
pression gathered deeper on his face, 'Absolutely impos- 
sible. It would make collision a certainty. Can’t catch 
No. 1 by wire.’ 

"He turned to me with tears in his eyes and was in 
the act of speaking, when the instrument began ticking, 
'Joe swears he is coming; what must I do?’ 

"The operator sprang to his feet and bending over the 
table, replied, as fast as the instrument could work: 
'Hold him, for God’s sake. Arrest him, if necessary. If 
he comes it means death to many.’ For half a minute 
all was silent. I knew every operator on the road was 
breathlessly listening to the wire. First, there was a 
nervous flutter — ^then the wire spoke : 

" 'He has uncoupled from the train and he and his 
fireman have gone with the engine at full speed — clear 
the track !’ 

"I have seen many excited men, but never one so in- 
tensely unnerved as my friend, the chief dispatcher. His 
hair actually stood on end, and the perspiration gathered 
in beads on his forehead. His face was as pale as death 
— and tearing off his coat, he seized the key of the instru- 
ment, and I’ll wager there was never such telegraphing 
before. I am a very fast operator, but it taxed me to 
keep up with him as he flashed the message, 'Wild engine 

on track between Athensville and . Side track 

everything at all hazards.’ Not a word was spoken — 
there he stood like a statue — pale, but steady — listening 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


247 


for disaster, wreck and death. Suddenly a message came 
from a little station ten miles from Athensville : 

^ J oe passed at sixty miles per hour. Knocked a year^ 
ling clear over the wood stacked on edge of right of way.’ 

knew as the moments went by that the crisis was 
close at hand. My friend, the operator, was as white as 
a ghost, but his nerves were never stronger. He glanced 
at the clock — at the speed reported, he knew that No. 1 
ought to meet J oe at or near the way station, Chandling. 
For a moment the wires were still — ^then a sharp call — 
I thought my friend would collapse — ^then came the hur- 
ried message: 

^^^Ko. 1 made it on the switch by a scratch — Joe 
knocked the paint off side of rear coach as he passed — 
went by at full speed.’ 

^^My friend staggered and almost fell to the floor, 
muttering nearly inaudibly, Thank God — thank God !’ 

Without a word we went to the window, and soon, 
far over the hills we could see a dense, black smoke, and 
we knew that Joe was coming. Hearer and nearer came 
the’ smoke, and soon could hear the low rumble of the 
flying iron steed. He never blew a whistle — so said his 
fireman later on, when questioned — he leaned far out 
from the cab window, bare headed, pale and speechless — 
and with the throttle pulled wide open he flew over the 
track as fast as steam could revolve iron wheels. 

^^We saw him come in sight, and my hair stood on end 
as I saw the engine’s fearful speed. He passed within 
one hundred yards of where we stood and ran into the 
yards — sprang from the panting monster, and rushed 
home like a madman. 


248 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


“Well, that’s about all, except that there was a meet- 
ing of some railway officials next day and Joe was pres- 
ent. After some talk he rose with cap in hand, and as 
the tears chased each other down his weatherbeaten 
cheeks, he said : 

“ T know. Colonel , I did wrong, very wrong, 

but I thought my baby was dying, and I was crazy — 
stark crazy. Thank God, she is out of danger, now, and 
if it was to do over again^ I guess that I’d be more cool 
and — and — (as tears ran faster down his face) no, Col- 
onel, d — me if I didn’t come if I ditched every train 
on the division. I’d be bound to. Colonel — I’d be bound 
to.’ 

“There was a moist look in the eyes of the officials 
present, and finally the Colonel said, in husky tones, as 
he waved his hand toward the door: 

“ ^Well, go back on your run, Joe, but I hope this 
won’t happen again.’ 

“ 'So do I, Colonel,’ fervently answered Joe.” 

^ ^ 

When you have to thrown a man down, tie his hands 
and hold his nose in order to get a little dose of moral- 
ity down his throat, you had just as well save time by 
permitting him to go to hell on his own hook. As 
soon as your back is turned, he will throw up the dose, 
and cuss you out to boot. In other words, if a man 
can not be induced ta be a moral man by kind means, 
the sooner the law deals with him the better. You 
can not force him to be good, but you can make him 
afraid to be openly bad. 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


219 


AN INSULT TO TEXAS. 


Not long ago the managers of an orphan asylum in 
New York shipped a carload of babies to the South, to 
be distributed among people who cared to adopt them. 
The car stopped at Houston, and press telegrams from 
the Bayou City say that a large number of women ac- 
tually fell over themselves trying to get possession of 
the children. 

I protest solemnly against infant immigration to 
Texas. I claim that by close application to legitimate 
business, aided by the wonderful salubrity of our cli- 
mate, and the extended picnic period enjoyed by the 
people of Texas, the necessary output of home manufac- 
ture will be amply sufficient to prevent any approach to 
a baby famine in this State. 

The North has long led the South in the establish- 
ment of almost every line of industry, but there is abso- 
lutely no reason why we should be dependent upon our 
Northern friends for babies. It^s a shame for them to 
take the money, and I for one would be ashamed to 
acknowldge myself dependent upon some mutton- 
headed New York dude for my household pets. An- 
other thing, ITl swear I^m afraid of the breed, unless 
they were properly registered. 

While I frankly confess that Texas is far behind our 
Northern States in many lines of business, I point with 
pride to our infant population. While we have endured 
many adversities in our efforts to keep pace with mod- 
ern improvements, and have borne with patience the 


250 


K. Lamity^s Texas Tales. 


ravages of carpet-baggers and boll weevils, thank God 
we have been blessed in our homes, and the baby crop 
has never failed to be a howling success. 

But we have not yet reached our possibilities in this 
line. The field is broad, and only partially developed. 
Of course, like all other crops, there are always more or 
less failures, but I believe in almost every instance the 
blame can be traced to either inexcusable ignorance, or 
in overcropping. One acre of ground, properly tilled, 
is worth fifty acres only partially cultivated. 

I am deeply interested in the baby crop of Texas. It 
is our surest hope for the country, and, if it is a fail- 
ure, so will be our future progress. 'Any State — espe- 
cially a new one like Texas — ^had better lose a dozen 
cotton crops than one baby crop. 

While we want all the babies that are legitimately 
coming to us, we only want those who can at least lay a 
reasonable claim to honest parentage. Like begets like, 
and Texas, with her vast possibilities, need take no 
chances in spending money raising an unpedigreed colt, 
when the best stock on earth can be secured at home. 
I am afraid to risk hatching eggs from an unknown hen. 
Ten to one the chicken would be a thoroughbred dung- 
hill and not worth killing. 

I am a trifle astonished at the frantic efforts made hy 
those Houston ladies to secure one of the babies from 
that car. Wliat’s the matter down there, anyhow? Is 
marriage in the Bayou City a failure ? The question is 
a serious one, and the buck is certainly up to the men. 
I lived there five years, but I’ll swear I never heard of 


K. Lamity's Texas Tales. 


261 


any such conditions existing as the recent episode would 
indicate. 

I believe a systematic effort ought to be made looking 
to a legitimate increase along this line. No doubt there 
is much good material going to waste, and, in the lan- 
guage of the Holy writ, let us ‘^make the waist places 
glad.^^ 

Our young men should be taught that it is a duty 
they owe to civilization and to this great State to lose 
no time in dilly-dallying with such momentous ques- 
tions, but exert themselves while young and vigorous to 
get down to legitimate business and be an honor to the 
great State that gave them birth. 

It’s no trouble to secure a first-class partner. The 
woods and prairies are full of them, and^ when the 
partnership is arranged. I’ll guarantee love, loyalty, and 
trust on the part of the party of the second part. Get 
a move on yourselves, young men, and, as true, honest, 
patriotic and home-loving Texans, do your best to wipe 
out the affront offered by the North in shipping a car- 
load of babies to the Lone Star State. 

S ^ ^ 

The father who raises a son to manhood and neglects 
to teach him some avocation by which he can earn an 
honest living, makes a Serious and sometimes fatal mis- 
take. The big, brawny, strapping young fellow in blue 
overalls, with bare arms black with coal dust and grease, 
who slings a heavy sledge hammer eight or ten hours 
a day, or heaves ton after ton of coal into a fiaming 
furnace, may not look quite so neat, sweet and kissable 


252 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


as the spider-legged dude in tailor-made clothes, but 
when it comes down to a real bread and meat proposi- 
tion, the latter individual is lost in the shuffle. N o mat- 
ter particularly what trade or avocation a man follows, 
just so it is honest and legitimate, and the man has 
the inclination and ability to do the task well. A first- 
class, ignorant wood chopper who is willing to work 
is worth all the educated vagabonds that you could pack 
inside a forty-acre lot. Young hoys should he educated, 
but they should be taught something practicable. That, 
in any event, renders them independent, so far as mak- 
ing a living is concerned. 

^ ^ ^ 

When a woman files in a rage, she is a bird. 

- ^ S ^ 

Politics is very much like religion. Take out the 
emoluments, and very few will at least seek important 
positions. 

^ ^ ^ 

An advantage won by force must be retained by force. 

^ S ^ 

Always put off until tomorrow that which ought not 
to be done today. 

A* 

Some one sent me a letter the other day asking me 
^Vhat I thought of a respectable married man who fre- 
quented houses of questionable repute?’^ It is impos- 
sible to form such an opinion, as ^^respectable married 
meffl^ dofflt visit such places. Some old married hogs 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


253 


wallow around disreputable resorts, but decent men, 
never. You canT expect a razor-back to overlook a mud 
hole if there is one in the neighborhood. Their wives 
ought to poison them with strychnine and then let me 
get on the jury. ITl swear it would be an acquittal or 
hung jury. 

^ ^ S 

Don’t get discouraged because you are poor. Your 
lifeboat may be a little leaky, but it will never sink if 
you keep on pumping. 

^ ^ ^ 

It’s no trouble to regulate the other fellow’s clock. 

' ^ ^ ^ 

When capital and labor balk the public pulls the load 
and pays the freight. 

^ ^ ^ 

The boll weevil is a summer visitor. He comes to 
stay till cold weather. 

^ ^ ^ 

Plenty of corn, fodder, oats, and a good buggy whip 
ought to make the mare go. 

^ 

Hydrophobia doesn’t always originate with dogs. 

^ ^ 

A Canadian paper says : hundred tons of cat- 

tails were sold in London in one day to be used in orna- 
menting ladies wearing apparel.” About 20,000 gallons 
of cocktails are sold in Texas every morning, to be used 
in taking the crimps and wrinkles out of the stomachs 


264 


K. L amity’s Texas Tales. 


of over 200,000 old blue-nosed booze busters, who get 
up in the morning with a taste in their mouths like 
something that fell out of the scavenger cart. 

^ ^ ^ 

It’s much better to be a young man’s partner than an 
old man’s plaything. 

^ ^ ^ 

The old-fashioned washtubs, manipulated by honest, 
though weak feminine hands, keeps many a big, strong, 
brawny male loafer off the poor farm. Isn’t that the 
God’s own truth? 

^ ^ S 

When a man deliberately ‘goes to the dogs,” the dogs 
have too much respect for themselves to associate with 
him. 

^ ^ 

A San Antonio subscriber asks: “Do you believe in 
early marriages? If so, how early? (Signed) James 
» 

Yes, Jimmie, I am an advocate of early marriages. 
As to the precise time, of course that depends, but if 
you want to be safe, I would suggest that you marry 
about 5 o’clock in the morning. A good, early start 
is half of the journey. 

^ ^ ^ 

The most liberal man on earth makes the least fuss 
about it. A large class of people remind me of an old 
rooster who, having found a nice, fat worm, begins call- 
ing tq the other chickens to come and eat it. After 
making a great show of his unselfishness, he gently 


K. L amity’s Texas Tales. 


255 


swallows the dainty naorsel, struts round in a circle 
combing his wing feathers with his toes, and finally 
crows his own praises to the disgusted chickens. 

^ ^ ^ 

There nevet will he a ^^trust” on pretty women in 
Texas. I never saw competition so strong in my life. 
^ ^ ^ 

If the dissatisfied people on earth who spend their 
time groaning and grunting were half as bad off physi- 
cally as they believe themselves to be, none of them 
would be alive in a week. 

^ ^ ^ 

Many people who attend revival meetings, get happy 
and register for a full religious dinner, never get fur- 
ther than soup. 

^ ^ ^ 

A Georgia man has succeeded in producing a breed 
of chickens that can not fly, and roost on the ground 
like ducks. If that man ever enters the race for Presi- 
dential honors, he will hurry off with the solid color 
vote with the speed of a Tom cat shot with a bootjack. 
^ ^ 

I know people who consider themselves real smart 
whose think boxes haven’t been in running order in ten 
years. 

^ ^ ^ 

Another crank is now declaring that women never 
go to heaven for the reason that no mention is made 
of it. There was no need to mention it. Everybody 


256 


K. Lamity’s Texas Tales. 


knows angels live in heaven. Besides, if yon will show 
me where the women are, I will show yon where all the 
men want to go. If there were no women and girl 
babies in heaven, it wonld be a hell of a place, and I 
wonldnT want to go there. 

^ ^ ^ 

Some men whip their children principally becanse 
they canT whip anybody else. 

^ ^ ^ 

The crossest and most disagreeable man on earth is 
as polite and sweet as honey in the presence of the girl 
he is trying to marry. 

^ ^ ^ 

The man or woman who don’t like children onght not 
to want to go to heaven. That place is running over 
with babies. 

^ ^ ^ 

The man who thinks the world owes him a free liv- 
ing is always disappointed, unless he runs up on some 
kind-hearted sheriff to supply his actual necessities. 

^ ^ ^ 

Don’t get angry and whip your children. For all you 
know you may be spanking a future President of the 
United States, or the future wife of some penniless 
duke from across the water. It won’t do to take any 
such chances. 

^ ^ ^ 

What’s the use of sending a missionary to Africa to 
convert the negroes? Send Roosevelt. If you want to 
convert a man, feed him. 


PRICE 50 CENTS 



K. Lamitys 
T exas T ales 


By 

JOHN S. BONNER 





JAN 3 1905 


K. Lamity’s 

TexasTales 

T Are taken from K. Lamity s 
Harpoon, a forty-page monthly 
magazine published at Austin, 
Texas, by John S. Bonner. 

This magazine is about the 
warmest proposition in the 
United States, and the price is 
one dollar ($1.00) per year. 

If For sale by all newsdealers, 
or on all railway trains. 



LBAp ’05 


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